half empty glasshouse – insolent mockery of the divine under centrist rule lyrics
does there exist a landscape on this earth dreadful enough that it must not ever be projected upon a canvas?
so reminiscent of the wickedness we suppress inside that its mere simulacrum will contaminate our souls?
are the columns of our conscience so fragile that a story of a tremor alone could lead our cities to rubble and ruin?
must beauty be defended from the ugliness as the good is defended from evil?
it is not always beautiful, this life
and if we did portray is so, well, that would be a lie
the most profound of poetry cannot always be made to rhyme
shall its wisdom be discarded as a matter of convention?
i did not mean to desecrate our holy ritual
i only wanted to explore the boundaries of reverence
weep not, the temples are still standing st+rdy as ever
and all you love has not been lost because of what i’ve built
our offspring are so helpless on their own
their infancy so tedious, so prolonged
we have learned to cherish, like a mother, everything
for in this world, what we do not cherish will be stolen and consumed
yes, the wisdom is true
it is, indeed, better to be safe than sorry
better to enshrine than to mourn
it is so easy to claim the sanction of god
to point towards a structure and decide that it is holy
but that designation will not save it
when the bedrock rumbles, when the river overflows
yes, everything you consecrate demands your conservation
and everything you love haunts you as you reckon with its impermanence
stacked on top of your own like atlas balancing jupiter on the earth
i beg you not to covet more than you can protect
i beg you not to love more than you can afford to lose
for the shield drives men to madness far more than the sword
the paranoia parasitises nurture and affection
contorts every colour on the palette that reminds us of death into death itself
and thus to be resisted
and thus to be condemned
and on and on until every hue that does not radiate of life is destroyed
and all that is left of us is, yes all of our portrait that remains, is a sterile white and empty page
must not a brush be dipped in blood to paint the heart of man?
must not a brush be dipped in blood to paint the heart of man?
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