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Description
lo, there he is
in come the clowns
marching in a chorus line of self-deception
the ornamental parade of illusion
set out for all to see.
it's a wonderful life
and wonderful to be lived,
he spoke aloud to the captive audience
the quality of life judges.
perfect landing, said one
look how he falls so gracefully
upon his knees, as if to beg us
to finally bleed him to death

never worry; never fear
his painted smiles are no match
for your inquisitive stares
he plays you like a fiddle
and you read him like a book
a tattered book with yellowed paper
and a creased binding
and dog-eared pages
never worry, he can still be read
past the faded lines of prose

serving the devil with your left hand
a sinner in a right-handed world
an actor who forgot his lines
a poet without verse
without an identity, yet unable to forget
without salvation, yet praying to be saved
lost within the ticking of the clock
the labyrinth of realization
searching equally for id and ego
and the meaning of life
yet finding it all a sham.

where exists this epic hero
within the shell of a man?
where exists the powerful being
when he is powerless to circumstance?
did he manage to fool anybody else?
or is he locked within the closet
waiting for the one who holds the key
to release what once was good
to paint color upon monochrome
to save him from himself.
a wonderful life and wonderful to be lived.
for some, perhaps.
but not always for the fool.

Description
lo, there he is
in come the clowns
marching in a chorus line of self-deception
the ornamental parade of illusion
set out for all to see.
it's a wonderful life
and wonderful to be lived,
he spoke aloud to the captive audience
the quality of life judges.
perfect landing, said one
look how he falls so gracefully
upon his knees, as if to beg us
to finally bleed him to death

never worry; never fear
his painted smiles are no match
for your inquisitive stares
he plays you like a fiddle
and you read him like a book
a tattered book with yellowed paper
and a creased binding
and dog-eared pages
never worry, he can still be read
past the faded lines of prose

serving the devil with your left hand
a sinner in a right-handed world
an actor who forgot his lines
a poet without verse
without an identity, yet unable to forget
without salvation, yet praying to be saved
lost within the ticking of the clock
the labyrinth of realization
searching equally for id and ego
and the meaning of life
yet finding it all a sham.

where exists this epic hero
within the shell of a man?
where exists the powerful being
when he is powerless to circumstance?
did he manage to fool anybody else?
or is he locked within the closet
waiting for the one who holds the key
to release what once was good
to paint color upon monochrome
to save him from himself.
a wonderful life and wonderful to be lived.
for some, perhaps.
but not always for the fool.