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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Our prison is strong, And made stronger still, By men who work to break the hour, And till, One reaps, and the other sows their will- Here the abyss harvests, All of passions power- To build each brick, cell, prison, tower, Keeping each state, United, under the dominion of hell, Which with shades of death, and music, croaks the final bell: Dal dolce nono, nono, nono. Ere from the abyss I separate, And seek the beautiful lights of heaven, From the mouth of caves, In which the swallowing of forms, Stays constant, bleak, And all beguiling- Therefore eyes look out to see Amongst a grey November, Four rivers run, From swerve of shore to bend of bay, Each river leading, Where Eden lays: Beyond horizon, Upturned from the earth, Waiting for eleven thousand moons, To blossom and bloom in fair rebirth But, But L'enfer, c'est les autres, Je reve seul, Notre choix n'est pas dol. And neither jasper, nor gold As clear as glass,builds Byzantium Back to mind, for it is only spirit, The temple soul, That allows to bypass time, For imagination is power absolute, And one man's mind Is universal truth. To be free, to be free, to breathe the air, And drink sea, I walk the ground, Persistent, for liberty, consistent- With absolute necessity, Yet, yet There is a sufficiency For perhaps one man's need But not for others' They breed Harmful greed. Oh to cleanse the doors, And set perception free, I seek each category Vanished be, And if my mind doth Step outside, And bridge the gap Of reality, Then, and only then, Shall we, My romantic friend, Escape into infinity... And why? Because. I can no longer stand to see Old friends pass And new one's go, Upon the banks of interest Shuffling so, Still on that self-same bridge, Eyes now locked full-forward Destination bent As if death never existed And heaven only meant, The remote, in the garage, Opening gates of pearls, Which you'd sail through, On your way to Lake Laberge; "Why? Well... it's much like the gold rush, It start off true, here you Have the numbered few, Those hardworkin' prospectors, Who, strike it rich, now and again, And then they cling to the land, Like the land's their friend, And the whole camp follows: The hookers, the garbage, the lies, And all because they swallow The dream of streets that're lined Yet with gold" as clear as glass, Builds not Byzantium back to mind, For it is only spirit
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