I turn to spurn the light of truth
though bright it shines for all to see.
I search in darkness for my youth
when life had little history.

Born out of primal fear and dread
I have become complexity;
I walk alone among the dead
to share their gray eternity.

Each brick of life procured from soil
so rich with rustic dust of red -
no broken bonds nor wasted toil
as every pledge is stroked and fed.

Our base is made of velvet cloud
that forms the first awakening,
then nourished with false wisdom proud
until we meet our reckoning.

All flaws forged deep and sewn within
to hide inside a feckless form;
an outer garment soiled in sin
yet hails no harbinger of storm.

Each layered cut is foul and spent
yet no stitch thrown shows obvious;
its fabric labored, torn and rent
an image bold yet spurious.

And this we carry to our grave
in extant bliss of ignorance.
No worthy waste is left to save
before the ether's permanence.

All life is weaved with threads and smoke,
translucent its solidity;
life buried by illusion's yoke
in veils of vast transparency.