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