B.J. Murphy - A Cosmist's Tale lyrics

Opt Not for d**h A cosmist's cosmological comet is in correlation with the connotational confrontation of dreams, Dreams that are only dreamt by the dreary of d**h, d**h only dreamt when no dreams are left. For what is left than the dichotomy of life and naught, foretold by the whispers of our ancestors' ancestors? A dialectical deictic discussion between a two-headed dragon, Discussing a myriad of discourses which mirror the race of every clock's hand — each with a similar result: Time since wasted as cells dry with haste; To die — such a goddamn waste. When staring at the cosmos, a dual of viewpoints arise, Do I stare at the stars and witness their transient transcendence from birth to nonexistence, Or do I look beyond the stars and witness my own intransient design over time? Regardless, for now, I am a convict of my own biology, Rotting gradually among the convent of convocational creatures, Possessed in the possession of a pessimist's procession. Faith or fate leaves no room to fight the freight of “(n)everlasting souls,” Merely left with beggars only begging questions of their beginnings. Ought we to not fight for a continuance for what had begun? Forever erred in the conjecture of life and d**h's conjunction, I find myself left with one verity I cannot ignore: To opt not for options only optimal for dissolution is equivalent to staring d**h in the face and say, “No more!” Rise of the Underlings An explosion erupts in exponential fashion, Exploiting the explorations of my ongoing existence. “Exist!” I say as I casually stare in the mirror, demanding the damnation of this nation's proclamation to d**h; Demanding that the damned rise like a tsunami rushing through the dams! The auspice of my consciousness does not respond, No devil nor angel standing on my shoulders, whispering and tugging, pointing me to the same direction. No, only the erection of irreconcilable paths, With attempts to withstand my wits with which it wishes to wither. Whether or not I choose to hold my ground in this weather, I know this withy path I take will lead me to humanity's greatest and oldest oppressor. I stand, pitchfork ready, aiming as the Grim Reaper bows. This entropy of my life, gasping for my final breath, Not knowing this night's conclusion as lightening strikes over the knoll. No longer in a state of reverie as I refuse to revere in the Reverend's reveling of ancient pseudo-remedies for d**h. This is my final stand; This is our final stand! As sweat drips down my brow, I stare one last time at the stars. “This isn't just for me,” I say to myself, “This is for every speck of dust, for every bit of energy they've delivered for me to be.” I shout to the cosmos with sought avail as the whistling cool winds winnow the cornfields next to us, “I must….not….fail!” And then… Like the scene when David strikes down Goliath, d**h is no more. I weep for joy; I weep for life; I weep for every lost being up to now. With a new beginning with no need to endure an end, I stand before our fellow sentient brothers and sisters and shout with all my might and say, “The future is ours!” A future, indeed, forcing me with an obligation to oblige our past's suffering, Kneeling before Shakespeare's ghosts, whispering, “Dear Brutus….we are no longer underlings.” We Are Cosmists Like a flicker of light illuminating the night sky; A coma patient, whose only inevitability was d**h, arisen from his biological ashes like a newborn phoenix, I, the underling, became a Cosmist. Creation at its most pure and crucial form without being slain in vain, in cruciform. With no telling what tales lie before me, Only the stories I'll tell over time, like the entrails left behind from a comet's tail. Life, which had hitherto been limited, has now extended, For the extremity of such an externality is thus: Eternal. My existential exit from d**h, itself, is beyond words, It is beyond existence. Once automata, now angelic on the path of self-righteousness, Transcending the boundaries of space and time, pulling behind me the benign act of unconditional benevolence. What benevolent act could I possibly provide which matches, or even triumphs, the gift of immortality? A message… A message which ensures that I ensue to you, dear brethren, all which had been fought for and, unfortunately, died for; A message to our enemies that their ideals will no longer permeate throughout the permutations of our newly designed existence. To quote once more the ghost of Shakespeare, “lend me your ears”: The designation of our design is only known to each designer. Yesteryear's art of Rembrandt, Van Gogh, and Da Vinci will be tomorrow's gene splicing, modification, and enhancing. You are the masters of your own creation, Even with yourselves being the subject of creation – A sculpture sculpting his or her self. This is the time when we should look back and mourn every life since pa**ed for having to endure in the pains of living with d**h by every doorstep. Today is a new day; Today we abandon our Gods and take the thrones for ourselves. Yes, we live in a brave new world. Though I promise, your bravery will be the spark which unleashes our absolute liberation! For we are Cosmists, And our cosmological comet is life.