The seeds of my art lie buried within the heart,
for many have declared it dead, and held funerals
mourning the great men who shall never come again;
their words carved upon unliving stone in tribute.

And so the dead prayers come. Rote, unchanging.
The cool, dry air that brings no nourishment,
to the potential bursting within the chest.
Until a spatter of inspiration comes flowing

As the world shakes and rumbles beneath the feet,
the spinning top retains its balance,
The external motion having no purchase upon
its dance, energy imparted that will be completed

and so I act the toy.
Let the cruel marvel at my motions and beat,
let my hands weave patterns they interpret
as the flap of a wing, or the flow of water.

When tyrants bloom among the dung of the city
first they strike against me and my roses
that I offer to the city freely, without demands
save that the thorns are observed and prepared for.

But the grey and wise scream against my thorns
for they shall rend the fragile hands of children
The scent is too strong, they warn, and it will lead astray
those that should revel in the smell of civilization.

So stands the proudest of beasts upon the field,
Ever bold in his journey, ever sure of his steps
the burdens of the past put aside, never to trouble
the conquering hero upon his noble throne.

But upon every throne lies a snare
to catch the beast in his moment of weakness
while all look away, the beast paces
seeking satiation at the nearest pond

I do not know the future, for all is flux
within the various states of being
The bodies within the skies whirl in time
and those that study can see the patterns within.

The mockery of the ignorant will ever be
for so secure are they in their tiny spheres
that they cannot realize that many bodies
rotate and affect each other, and what is true

Upon the field they clash and strike
Each attack intended to end the matter
for no blow is unsportsmanlike
no lust believed the domain of the satyr.

(Refrain)
Crashing shields and broken spears
These are the things left on the field
Fear behind the false veneers
Led by rancid hate unconceal'd

A high garden wall you erect around a wedding
where the bride was dragged to the altar
By a man who bound her ambitions, and claimed
Consent through conquest. But that is as normal

To those who see only the assent and not the quivering voice
that delivers lies. The shivered glances that the conquered
chance, in anticipation of the next silencing blow
from loving warden's hand that he claims is a kiss.

How grand to run free of the tower where
I find myself oft imprisoned by locks and bars.
For many is the voice that I empower with memory
of events that unfurled, of struggles waged

Of man and woman who stand against odds gargantuan
and eke out a stalemate against the titans of shares.
Even that loss is too much for the proud new Gods,
Who proclaim themselves to be no more than man.

An Audience of Shades and Gods? How Droll.
For when I spoke in life I spoke to those
who were not to be seen and not to be talked of.
The Nothos were my friends, my partners and my lovers.

But recalled from final home, I find a throng
much greater than I could have imagined.
What words of mine have you read? What books
that I scribbled between falling and sleep?

I sing a hymn to gods! I sing a hymn
to those that seek to praise. To those that bend
to those that stoop! To those whose life is work
upon the land. Let none set us at odds.

For it is in the call and ans'ring voice
that sounds about the ear, and lifts the hand
for one more step along the road we pull.
(Stage Direction. This line is deliberately left empty to give the performer time to ready the chorus)

One!