Nothing but cobwebs, corners, and a candle - a dusty cubicle furnace
But if the flame reveals nothing is it fruitless to burn it?
...
It was here many years ago, a scholar made peace with the stars
A resting place for his truths that would bleed from his heart
Like a speech of Venus and Mars, the frequencies that scream from the spheres in the sky
Of science and symphonies, of where you appear when you die
But I fear that his mind, had only a single maxim to posit
& the darkness still speaks of it, the phantoms still gossip
And he believed he reaped it from the tree of endless wisdom
Like clever mystics wishing on metal sigils
upon temple fixtures - the petals glisten, his mind a verdant matrix
Of arbor in bloom - where the sun shines, until skies hearken his doom
Signaling challenges of relaying mathematics from the dark of a tomb
He keeps his furor patient, as his physical fades - but his burning rage
Augments the struggle in perfecting the ways he can keep the future turning his pages!
And his cauldron - it bubbles, questing after that mystical flower
In his forested mind but its growing wizened and sour
The dark clouds blot out the sun rays - the day time, it must fade
Further theory that dusk-to-dawns on his face in a dumbed haze
His passing words, his legacy - how difficult to punctuate
When you can't escape the blood-lust of fate
In this theory, nothing pays...
- A scholar dedicated to the art of training the mind
Is now waiting to die, and painfully straining to find
Why he walked this path embraced with the chains of his life
So that he's unable to fly..
As he fades, he seeks immortality, but nothing recalls
Because even the man who knows everything, knows nothing at all.