A man whose heart is outlined in lead
Cannot catch the drippings from the sky
His voice begins to rust, if it ever did speak
And one thousand songs he has sung
Did they ever give hope; Find a higher meaning
Listen, as the waves crash away at the shore
Beating against the crag, Sand imparts bliss
Yet for one undying thought, or many more
He stands defiant of the tide, stringing up his harp
To make sense of a madder world, to be its Poe
These are the things he clings to, signs of life
For what not is writing, but a way to breathe
Understanding of the iterations, joy from the sea
So undaunted he charters on, perhaps a while
If into another storm, so be it, he's stronger
Hope begs to be courted, yet demands nothing
And without the tragedy of falling down faithless
No story ever truly rises into the evening wind
A man's greatest adversary, and also his kin
The space between the Cerebrum and Aorta
Where the Spirit dwells, from which all emanates
