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THE BOOK OF COUNTED SORROWS (from the main man Dean Koontz)
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Coldfire
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Life without meaning
cannot be borne.
We find a mission
to which we're sworn
- or answer the call
of Death's dark horn.
Without a gleaning
of purpose in life,
we have no vision,
we live in strife,
- or let blood fall
on a suicide knife.
---
Nowhere can a secret keep
always secret, dark and deep,
half so well as in the past,
buried deep to last, to last.
Keep it in your own dark heart,
otherwise the rumors start.
After many years have buried
secrets over which you worried,
no confidant can then detray
all the words you didn't say.
Only you can then exhume
secrets safe within the tomb
of memory, of memory,
within the tomb of memory.
---
Nowhere can a secret keep
always secret, dark and deep,
half so well as in the past,
buried deep to last, to last.
Keep it in your own dark heart,
otherwise the rumors start.
After many years have buried
secrets over which you worried,
no confidant can then detray
all the words you didn't say.
Only you can then exhume
secrets safe within the tomb
of memory, of memory,
within the tomb of memory.
---
Vibrations in a wire.
Ice crystals
in a beating heart.
Cold fire.
A mind's frigidity:
frozen steel,
dark rage, morbidity.
Cold fire.
Defense against
a cruel life
death and strife:
Cold fire.
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Dragontears
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Rush headlong and hard at life
Or just sit at home and wait.
All things good and all the wrong
will come right to you: it's fate.
Hear the music, dance if you can.
Dress in rags or wear your jewels.
Drink your choice, nurse your fear
In this old honkytonk of fools.
---
Living in the modern age,
death for virtue is the wage.
So it seems in darker hours.
Evil wins, kindness cowers.
Ruled by violence and vice
We all stand upon thin ice.
Are we brave or are we mice,
here upon such thin, thin ice?
Dare we linger, dare we skate?
Dare we laugh or celebrate,
knowing we may strain the ice?
Preserve the ice at any price?
---
Faraway in China,
the people sometimes say,
life is often bitter and
all too seldom gay.
Bitter as dragon tears,
great cascades of sorrows flood
down all the years,
drowning our tomorrows.
Faraway in China,
the people also say,
life is sometimes joyous
if all too often gray,
Although life is seasoned
with bitter dragon tears,
seasoning is just a spice
within our brew Of years.
Bad times are only rice,
tears are one more flavour,
that gives us sustenance,
something we can savor.
---
Those who would banish the sin of greed
embrace the sin of envy as their creed.
Those who seek to banish envy as well,
only draw elaborate new maps of hell.
Those with passion to change the world,
look of themselves as saints, as pearls,
and by the launching of noble endeavor,
flee dreaded introspection forever.
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Fear Nothing & Hideaway
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We have a weight to carry
and a distance we must go.
We have a weight to carry,
a distination we can't know.
We have a weight to carry
and can put it down nowhere.
We are the weight to carry
from there to here to there.
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In the fields of life, a harvest
sometimes comes far out of season,
when we thought the earth was old
and could see no earthly reason
to rise for work at break of dawn,
and put our muscles to the test.
With winter here and autumn gone,
it just seems best to rest, to rest.
But under winter fields so cold,
wait the dormant seeds of seasons
unborn, and so the heart does hold
hope that heals all bitter lesions.
In the fields of life, a harvest.
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Life is a gift that must be given back
and joy should arise from its possession.
It's too damned short, and that's a fact.
Hard to accept, this earthly procession
to final darkness is a journey done,
circle completed, work of art sublime,
a sweet melodic rhyme, a battle won.
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Death is no fearsome mystery.
He is well known to thee and me.
He had no secrets he can keep
to trouble any good man's sleep.
Turn not thy face from Death away.
Care not he takes our breath away.
Fear him not, he's not thy master,
rushing at thee faster, faster.
Not thy master but servant to
the Maker of thee, what or Who
created Death, created thee
and is the only mystery.
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