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A life spilled into measured print, years concentrated into a few paragraphs,
A muted request for acknowledgement, Vain hope of meaning to the throng
Yet only excavated from recycled pulp By those who see their sorrows reflected again,
To tack to a personal timeline, To bring a sense of closure,
All with the calm order of tomb stones, Lining degrees births and careers in rigid succession,

An occasional cold eye passes them over, Merely walking on the lines,
That distill the loves, sensations and pain, Of a solitary universe

To concrete irrelevant markers, Only mere canvas depicted,
Eager to pass on to colored diversions, To many passings expressed in a single figure,

But far more often the Necropolis goes untouched by the light,
And is passed along and ground
into another log Of fresh black markings Superimposed over the newly mingled fragments,
Of those that have gone before,
Each installment fed on the marrow of its predecessors,
Until the presses rust, the faded sepulcher speaks louder,
Than the faded etchings beneath.

All lyrics by Rob Cook, Copyright 2002


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