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The Flowers in the Furnace

The ashes fall in final form the fruit is ripe, the worms are born.

Where heavy hangs the head that bore the pseudo-righteous crown of thorns that warns the garden blooming.

The explanations can’t explain, the undertaker’s taking names of tokens trained to play a game

where outcomes all come out the same, the pawn is always losing.

There’ll be vultures in the valley when the rabbit's on the run.

There’s a palace full of wisdom where our thoughts are going numb.

You may hear the bells when morning finally comes but they’re tolling for a time that’s nearly done.

The science of deception preaches violence and resentment teaches.

Shaping seeds to feed the leaches; straying where the quicksand reaches. speechless while you’re sinking.

Tragedy’s raised to believe that dreams become reality. They emulate the things they see forgetting that you’re only free

As long as you’re not thinking.

And we’ll pass a bleeding angel casting shadows in the sun.

Then we’ll ride into the canyon with the man who holds the gun, seeking solace in rewards that can’t be won.

And there’s screaming for a time that’s nearly done.

The shallow hammer echoes as the vanity calypso children paint the backward clowns. Watch them cover up their frowns.

The fiddler will serenade the masquerade but never makes a sound.

The ships are going down; there’re people screaming all around.

And nothing they can sell ya’s gonna tell ya’ where the wind is blowing now.

Straight and plain with crooked smiles manufacture fractured idols.

Casualties map out the miles; actors acting out denial. Who’s behind the curtain?

The masterminds will hypnotize while hypocrites hypothesize and if you fail to recognize or see beyond the glass disguise

don’t even bother looking.

And we’ll line up in the twilight when the roulette wheel is spun.

Then we’ll wait at the beginning for an end that’s just begun.

There’s a candle burning out in everyone.

And it flickers for a time that’s nearly done.