In the churning fire of twisted ire; the dastard fawn strums on his lyre,
We fill our ears with mocking jeers lest our eyes might tumble down with tears.
And so entertained, our minds are waned for higher thoughts we have disdained.
The tireless fingers of the fawn stroke the strings from night till dawn, until we yawn… until we yawn.
What piques your ear? A sound that’s queer, and harsh enough to catch your fear?
When all about’s cacophony, a thousand sounds thine ear doth see, can a message through to thee?
Still the sound of brambles: in this thicket the mind but rambles, and the Truth these do trample.
Have you learned to heed, or must about some noble deed? For in our ear there grows a weed.
The fawn is playing; and men keep saying, ever always like horses neighing
And in the night, the silent sound of Light… which rises up with greater might!
The fawn by now is terrified, so on and on his fingers lied, and in it our ears to Truth have died,
For in the din of hubris we… cannot discern the sound of free, and how this fills the fawn with glee!
The conquest of the very Light is reinforced within its fight, for its strength is found in sight,
And this, the hour of the fawn, (for darkness reigns, and man: his pawn); his death at dawn… his death at dawn.
When Jesus comes upon the cloud and takes away earth’s every shroud, what shall be loud, what shall be loud?
Is your soul a’listening? No not to man a’whistling, but to Whom the Oil is glistening.
A thousand sounds, weighted as a million pounds as the fawn doth fire a billion rounds.
“Awake, awake! Please heed the Sun! All things about not meant for fun, let’s put he fawn upon the run!”
No one hears, or no one cares, but for them I plead, and name the tares: “Come buy up all heaven’s shares!”
‘Remember, therefore how thou hast received and heard, and hold fast and repent. If therefore thou shalt not watch, I will come on thee as a thief and thou shalt not know what hour I will come on thee.’ (Rev. 3:3)