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Son Of Aurelius
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Coloring the Soul
Staring through an endless sea of weathered souls
roaming alone through the great unknown.
Baring jagged teeth at me,
they seem to be reaching out to tell me
something I need to know.
It's useless, though.
They're free of tongues and,
with rotted gums, I hear only screams
twixt the blood and nonsense
rupturing the air with a chord of despair
much akin to another I've heard...
Escaping from sleep and the haunt of these wretched dreams,
I must ease my mind to find
a piece of quiet that I can rest upon
and speak freely on God and politics
and all the other horrors of the world.
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Meaning seems lost in this modern conquest.
As Rome expands I can hear her groaning
under the weight of the question of whether
to serve for this country is to serve for
actual societal progress
or if it's gradual battle
for global rule over men and religion,
effectively crushing the ideals of the two.
All of them will fall before us.
What have we become?
'The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.'
God damn us all.
What have we become?
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