Miles in the wake,
The path is but a part of crumpled weeds,
Tread by the stalker of a dream that leads
Enchanting him with all that he might take
Then, closer back
That line reads bold and steady, straight, and narrow
And widens where the dream proposed a harrow
‘Cause sickle simply wasn’t going to hack
Who will pull the mask off of this dream?
And show us when these really aren’t moonbeams?
Dispel the lessons of our movie’s themes?
Who will pull the mask off of this dream?
The trail we trace
Splays out here and evicts flora and fauna
See where our stalker plucked some belladonna
In hopes he’d finally see his vision’s face
This ravaged ground
We stand upon is etched by the erratic
Stride of our stalker who became fanatic
His beckoning idol nowhere to be found