Delusionist Imaginarium

(álbum: The Tragedian's Decoupage - 2011)

I pose a question
What's more evasive?
Love or the memory of dreams as we awaken?
... and what's more feared than death?
What's two-faced like a cheek to the mirror's edge?
So oppressive at its end
That it seems to be defying the obsession it begins
While the pessimist defends that it was never love
But this, in itself, could prove that it was
It coos at the barriers of sex
Daring it to stifle the life within its breadth
... yet crucified when assessed
For at times, an enigma, it confuses and offends
Pews in a church over two-sets of men
Or the views of a congress on the age of consent
So I ask, what is this that's so mystic?
The last fantasy we accept, yet insist
What is love?

What is love?

Is it just another God for us
To dream into existence, like mirages of
Crucifixions, Muhammads and Allahs
To reclaim the sleep which our questions once robbed?
Is it a purpose? The lonely feel worthless
So is this why we spend time searching to unearth it
And those who can't find it receive it in their church
Like it's coming from a God if it won't from a person?
Oh, the tricks we insist upon
To make magic seem like realistic thought
It's like what's fictional or not
Is defined by the comfort or distress it may cause

But is the question worth posing?
And If answered, could we find it for the lonely?
Then place it in a pill to deplete the "if only"s
That plague those who've loved or those who've never known it
The loveless, now is that just a sickness?
Waiting to be cured by a chemist in an instant?
A pestilence for those who are distant
Which symptoms are prayer for someone just to miss them
Or is it all just disappointing
Like stars falling to the glow of a distant morning
Made complex by its witnesses
Like the dissection of simple arithmetic

What is love?

What is love?

I often wonder what it's like to have your head in the clouds
I'd pay for this delusionist imaginarium
I often wonder what it's like to have your head in the clouds
I'd pay for this delusionist imaginarium
Where love and God are like air and rocks
Where love and God are like air and rocks
They'd brush my cheeks
And scrape my knees at least