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Is the truth too hot to handle,
Or is the quest a trial by fire?
Maybe it's a trial for one's innermost burning flame not to expire

I have thirsted for truth
all my life
like a thirty something year old
wild fire
still chasing oxygen
still knowing there is so much more

But that thirst of mine
has left you feeling burnt out,
explored and vanquished,
barren
like a violated fertile region
that became a desert
or even just dusty
like a cup that's long ago been emptied
and left in an abandoned churches altar
so like that old, massive willow
that shrank the pond
to a puddle
and had to be ridden of
so that people could once again drown,
as within 'lies',
you've moved to cut me down

Okay, maybe I'm Edna Strickland
burning the Speakeasy down
and, lord knows, there are three golden rules
you don't touch Man's drink
you don't touch Man's gun
and you don't try to separate the lies
from the truth
if don't you want the hoses turned on you

Is the truth too hot to handle,
Or is the quest a trial by fire?
Maybe it's a trial for one's innermost burning flame not to expire

I have thirsted for truth
all my life
like a thirty something year old
wild fire
still chasing oxygen
still knowing there is so much more

But that thirst of mine
has left you feeling burnt out,
explored and vanquished,
barren...

One might say
that to rise
above the flames,
is merely to escape
and hide in the smoke

Let this fill your mind
lest it fill your lungs
we must die
by fire or pillow
i'd rather see lit up
what's around me
in the short moment
that is my time
than flounder in darkness
while the uncaged candle burns on
anyway