Текст песни Greylotus - Chiaroscuro

Оригинальный текст песни Chiaroscuro

“Maybe we all have in us a secret pond where evil and ugly things germinate and grow strong. But this culture is fenced, and the swimming brood climbs up only to fall back.” - (13.2.3) - John Steinbeck, East of Eden

Contrasting grey from grey as
obsidian from iridescent unpigmented
subjects distant, proximal.
Resolute towers
burned by their lifeless understructure.
Conflagration shedding light upon
their candor, undying.

Deafening whispers
paint the night, begging
“why have you built this cage for us?”
Pathways once azure run
thin with the sun,
pushing soot and amber blood.

Infixate;
both bygone and foretold
in the now
we will remain
suspended
spinning wheels without
(in)candescence,
(in)formation held.
Do you feel
the lack of
inspiration?
Something that we have not yet written.
Do you feel shame(ful)-
(full) of chaos?

Can there be darkness without a source of light?
A codependent relation inversely erudite.

It swells and subsides with the moon
in harmonic motion.
Perigee,
compounds the weight
of the inward struggle:
our trajectory onward.

The dark brood crawl toward their barrier
its wood has since begun to rot,
prosaic culturing.

The first signs of a city born anew
are met with a choir of dissent:
“Go back!” echoing through centuries,
although we tout the yearn for normalcy.
The first signs of a city born anew
are met with a choir of dissent:
“Stay down!” preservation of a state
is the reason a coward hesitates.

A thin line differentiates insanity from the allowed self;
the urge to self-annihilate fed by our need for separation.

Unfocusing my eyes,
black and white fall into grey.
Why must we cast the two as distinguishable at all?

Contrasting grey from grey as
subjects distant, proximal.
Can there be darkness
without a source of light?
A codependent relation
inversely erudite.

“Might it not be that in the dark pools of some men the evil grows strong enough to wriggle over the fence and swim free?” (13.2.3) - John Steinbeck, East of Eden

“Can you open your eyes to see?”
I’ve seen enough of the sun’s rays through rubicund eyelids.
Both thumbs depressed into sockets still cannot eclipse.
“Will you open your eyes for me?”
The pressured salt and soil brings forth an ichorous rain.
A dimly lit stream of static flows into my vision;
blinded, but now truly seeing. But now I see.
How could I build an identity from the shades I could never appreciate?