the will of the pen knows no bounds
but limited to the will of the writers hand
like the tone of a melody without sound
waiting for the cue from the band

the face of a painting has no features
except those the artist wishes to convey
as the student of life has no teachers
except those one wishes to obey

the mind of the artist knows no justice
except the judgement delivered by the land
for the wrath of nature lusts in
the embrace of chaos' arms at hand

the scholar may quest for that which is forbidden
though the will of the body remains untamed
for the strength of the mind lay hidden
in a philosophers temple in a philosophers brain

the warriors will to fight for glory
strengthened through each land he drifts
yet the screams in his dreams and stories
tells him how much peace is a gift


as the pen of history continues to move
inviting prince time to take part in chance
the celestial bodies start to groove
on the universes stage in a cosmic dance

it is the meekest of men to quest for equality
as the soul of the universe aligns with the brute
yet in the eyes of the artist one is taught to see
when the warrior speaks peace, his lips numb mute

the will of chaos runs parallel to the universe
as does history to plasma in veins
for the gift of peace is mans biggest curse
in a world he quest to claim