Condition

Such empty souls, lost and benighted! But the ground of
Being, such plight and hope. And my velvet faith, in constant
Flux. Thus the light, the warmth of darkness; and thus the
Darkness, the birth of light. And we tiptoe the wounds,
Scorned and bruised. For the moon, purple blood: the stars,
Vacant prayers: and our condition, the creep of death. Thus
We wrestle with fate, drunk with passion; and we grapple
With dreams, drunk with madness.

But the hidden truth, our spoken pain; and moral dictum, our
Sacred blood. Thus we perish, from birth to death; and thus
We cherish, our fated breath. And tattered hopes, our deep
Despair. But fervent love, our solemn prayer. Hence the cycle,
The plight of Job; and hence the scars, web the soul; but
Spirit-life, bronze to gold.