Wandering in Silence

Wandering in silence,
searching through the dusty
shards of memory,
I began to feel a
strange sensation creeping
lightly over me:
dusty whispers spoke in
long-abandoned places,
begging for a token:
"Set the millions free."

Could it be a spectre
frozen by the icy
knife of dying time?
Could it be the echo
of a moment's madness
and an ageless crime?
All I have to live for
are these stolen moments;
all I have to give are
songs that will not rhyme.

Will I live a hero,
crowned with love and laughter,
vanity and pride?
Will I die a martyr,
crowned with thorns and taunted?
Endlessly I cried,
"Which unholy saviour
'mong ye kings of glory
ever gladly gave your
life the way I died?"

Turning seasons bid me
reap the whirling wind that
fleeing time has sown;
ancient voices call me
down the years, relentless,
begging to be shown
how to gain the glory
of the final moment;
time escapes before me
as I stand alone.