This arc of ages

Run to the promising sun. Its a hope thats receded from our bow.

Its implied light will lighten you a ton. Unlike the steel hull of here and now.

Don't stare to long at what you hope to have won. Or youll lose your place on the chart before you've begun.

The anticipation of it beams right through. The conduit mast lifts our bloated sail as we run.

What did the crew scrawl across it now?

Your eyes are still clouded by lifes insurmountable sum.

My own waterlogged mind clings to you. The cannonade is white noise long due.

Like a cat with a litter thats a heavy and burdoned one. I hide in the galley eating the weakest notion.

Eating my responsibilitys one by one. The worm eaten wood is the structure we must preserve.

Ancient emanation from a possibly dead sensation. Blind hope, enough for me to lose my nerve.

Are we looking to a dead star for guidance in realties clown car? Or are we looking to a vibrant young blue and ignoring our current vector.

Is this a moving-part nation? Or is our movement from fear and the stale gales in the sail?

Or are we parietaly dead in our tidal pool of dread and zeal? Will we ever heal, or feel the light we've sealed?

If you favor hindsight, peer in denial at our sagging keel.

You'll find that the weight of our past is what guides your gazes upward peel.

Were capsizing vertically.

And the futures spoils are cascading accordingly.

Thats why I stole all of this cheap enjoyment, cant you see?

The lightest aren't falling into deaths gaping maw, just behind me.

Because the lightests path is lighter to the last, and it wont come back to bite me. The gimbal of null is all thats inside me.