Your ways belie the ties that bind,
and the follies of what you sought.
You claim to all you know it all, but some things can't be thought. The illusion of time, the source of your pride,
what's real becomes pretend.
You'll fall out of grace by the myriad ways,
that you fail to embrace all will end.
We're told in the steeple that books will hold truth,
and prayers will be heard from on high.
With your fore to the floor, you squander your youth
in pursuit of the prettiest lies.
If you truly desire release from this wrath,
the grace of King Ram is the only true path.