The Damien books

Every man at his best is vanity

Through neon dreams and surrogate wings

Though ages shall pass and knowledge bestow

The more a man learns, the less he knows

And grows the pallor of his lips

When night shall fall with the torment of bliss

He awakens stiffly from a dream

Back in the hand of surrogate wings

A waiting place awaits his reprise

When day falls swiftly into night

The yearn for some intangible face

Has brought him into this halllowed place

In this silence of the soul

The solace he gains is the wisdom of old

The knowledge that the only thing worthy to know

Consists in knowing that nothing he knows

The spirit burning from cults of flames

Of pains, and drains, and cold glass frames

The empty faces of yesterday’s shame

Are tomorrow’s sages, tomorrow’s gain

A devil in sheepskin, an angel in rags

A fallen life to save

Yet always and only do draw near at hand

The scars which have kept from the grave

He thrusts his fists against the post

And still insists he sees the ghost

As Jacob would wrestle Jehovah ‘till dawn

I am that I am, and a blessing was won

Nor serpent, nor venom, nor goat, nor swine

Nor prophet, nor dragon, nor eternity’s rhyme

Not even the most loveless, lifeless place

Shall separate man from his grace

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