The masters of black steel, their armor scientific, will tell you never give.
They prey to evolution, who looks like them but bigger, and pretend they do not live.
Yet when it all comes down to dust, is it truly wrong of us not to see what is.
As we never ask a favour of a man or of a devil because asking is a sin.
And if you have a problem, or need someone to hug you, just do what can't be done.
And I will face my demons, pretend they have no power and make the winter warm.
Yet will you offer payment, for giving me your needing, what will you leave when you are gone.
As we stand in darkened forests, I am hansel you are grettle and I'm my step mother's son.
It's easier to journey, through the swamps of toxic sadness for a love or a friend,
To throw rings into the fire, or lay swords upon the alter, or right wrongs that will not mend,
But when you wake next evening, and no longer need a hero, is this what you intend,
To become a distant stranger, to forget the work of ages, to let darkness have the end.
I thought I was a warrior, or maybe just a villain, or a coward without hope,
I thought I knew a secret, of how to dodge the headsman, and slip the hangman's rope,
But when I offered you my teaching, you listen so politely, then said that you could cope.
Because I have no wisdom, just a flower dried in paper, in an old emvelope.
And do I hear them laughing, the masters of the future as they smile benieth the moon,
or are they just ignoring, never thinking never speaking, dancing to an unheard tune.
I say it doesn't matter, my opinion's clear as crystal which is why I don't presume,
To tell them their not masters, just normal men and women, who learned too much too soon.
The trees are bent with winter, and somewhere the witch is laughing as she turns the world to stone,
and I read the hyroglifics, that she etches with her acid, into the spirals of a bone,
And are these magics ancient, or are they new as springtime, from old things that once were known,
In the time I was a writer, and was written on by others and was bound into a throne.
The mistakes I never thought of, the ones I'm tired of making, I will make them once again,
As I make them every year, such is my absolution, however much I plan,
the track is ever deeper, as the cycles walked in circles, and I pull upon the stone,
That I'm chained to by my logic, because I'm not a master, I'm no greater than a man.