I beseech, don’t even bother looking through the old pages,

All they hold is raw remorse,

Something that once had the ardor of home,

Now has the smell of egress, as the inferno rages.

I am sure they are all wrinkled and stained.

Why would you dirty your hand?

Why would you go through all that pain?

Of having to stare at the crumbling vellum,

To make out a word that has long been faded.

So let’s not walk that lane again,

For it has the crust so naked, so tender.

Let’s not exalt the sword again,

To fight the battle, long surrendered.

Does it really matter,

how many films of fabricated notion we shed?

Thousands of drops of tears Will not nourish that which has long been dead.

So here is a tale of forgery instead,

One that is white and unblemished.

The pages so fresh, it might cut your hand,

As it unravels, the myth so cherished.

Here is the formula for that binding spell,

The one that will conjure you a safe place to dwell,

A colossal castle in the air.

So why even bother looking through the old pages?

When all they hold is raw remorse.

Why even bother looking through the old pages?

When it is so easy; to ignore the faithful beast it cages.

For something that once had the ardor of home,

Now has the smell of escape, as the inferno rages.

For something that once had the ardor of home,

Now has the smell of ashes, as the inferno rages.