At times, I think Pythagoras was playing God
and that his law is that of a universal plan,
Mathematic yet organic, organized, chaotic, all in one,
our failure to see that is the altar and the lamb.
I build my conquests from an inner brink
I've stepped across in pride
I am at times, the emperor of Rome,
the moon, the flux and tide.
And I can stir emotion in my kings
And when I want, my eyes turn darkest black.
My flaws I don't possess, I never own,
Yet my downfall is always what I lack.
My fortuneteller plays the flute, you see
In notes which have no name,
I leave no hostages to fortune,
yet destiny remains the same.
At night, I dream, of unicorns and ghosts,
Of golden dust and vivid light,
But when I wake they're always gone,
and still no radiance in sight.
However, there are horizons
I've yet to see run dry,
And I have nerves and thoughts,
which counter all my sighs.
Remorse has every right to be a word,
but its meaning deserves imprisonment for life,
I've yet to finish my equation, my universal plan,
But I have hope to counter strife.