Work Text:
I.
What is life but a winding path
From one death to the next?
Behind you, the coffin;
Before you, the lid waiting to close.
What is life but a tale already written
In pages of light clasped in oblivion?
Our souls seek eternity, and yet we turn
Our eyes away from searing truth:
Eternity is only the name we call
The coffin that forms the limits of our souls,
And the covers that bind the pages of our days,
And the wax that pools about a candle
In which a single ember glows.
II.
Come, child, to my threshold,
And do not let the silent shadows scare you:
There is peace to be found here for your turmoil,
And there is salve for your sorrows,
And illumination for your doubts,
And in the flame of a lone matchstick
There is hope.
Come, child who would revolutionise the world.
The path before you has been prepared.
Let your coffin close around you
And fall into the fire.
Let your pages blacken into ash.
There is justice to be found here for your torment,
And there is redress for your rage,
And freedom for your fervour,
And in the flame of a soul blazing
There is hope.
Come, child.
Descend with me
Into what shall be your grave.