The venerable one's

Doctrine was crowned upon us

Humanity's noontide gain...

But the king was a phantasm

The crown but a porous withered wreath

Upon a tattered grimace

Our myopic gaze

Of a diaphanous tenet

Occluded all thought

Of solidity

Encircled by the frail cannon

Beset by the strength of support

The confines of validity

Are entrenched in rough soil 

Traces of the forms

Dance on the wall...

Unrelenting iron

Sleek cold steel

Clings to our wrists

As a vulnerable child

(To the stoic guardian)

The dead weight of 

This permeable helmet

Anchors us to the motionless rocks of chaos

Reflections of fidelity

Distillations of veracity

Specters of substantiality

(Cavort upon the wall)

Must this burden 

Be bourne unto our backs

As the world

On Atlas' shoulders?

If we were to lose

Our grip on the globe

Could we laugh 

As we witnessed it

Crash into the stars?

The explosion will shower us

In the elements of experience

Encumber us with the weight

Of reality...

Yet free us by serving as the lustrous key

To our rusted manacles

Traces of the forms

Dance on the wall

In time with flames

That provide false warmth