Screeching owls can never tell the story,

nor can paintings in some buried tomb;

how are we to know who merits glory?

weave another color on the loom.

Simple Simon seems in need of answers,

pious text is not enough to sate,

sells his soul to flashy necromancers,

now his glib opinions carry weight.

Fare thee well, my sister, choose your token,

double jeopardy, it's such a thrill;

please ignore the tablets - they're all broken,

fractured fairy tales of Jack and Jill.

Meet me there tomorrow ever after,

once you've found the reason for your cries;

sit beside my throne and share my laughter,

listening to chronicles of lies.

Save yourself for things that will have meaning,

once the world stops spinning through the sky;\

slide back in the pond and wait for evening,

stare up at the stars and watch them die.