You call it a wasteland?

Some people see ruin. I see the raw material of rebirth. This is a spoken-word meditation on destruction and what can grow in its ashes.

You think this Ouroboros is choking on his tail?
No, he’s birthing himself and shredding off the scales.
I’ll shed this old skin like a savage.
And craft my own rite of passage.

You think this Sisiphian weight is a punishment?
Well, your punishment is my practicement
Until I can hurl this weight like a balloon
Watch me skip uphill whistling my tune.

No side projects. No second chances. No hiding.
It’s now or never: no hedging, no dabbling.
No tomorrow, only today -- it’s all or nothing.
All in: body, mind, heart and soul -- towards something.

Collapse the bridges. Burn the boats.
This is the hill where we bare our throats.
Death, you got a grave deep enough to hold me down?
Where’s my casket? I’ll wear it like a crown.

No way back.
No surrender.
Nothing held back.
Nothing saved for later.

I’ll move so fast the earth rotates back under my feet.
I’ll use my shadow as a springboard and launch into the heat.
Forged in pain, quenched in grief and sharpened by desire
I’ll break the lock of destiny and dance through the pyre.

If I must burn, I’ll burn until the cage drops the bars.
If I must be broken, I’ll make an armor out of scars.
I’ll punch through the mirrors of the past
And laugh at the darkness that can’t last.

You think that history has trapped me in dependence?
Watch me seize the future and hurl it back with vengeance.
I’ll take the forge, the tempering and the immolation.
Time to die for everything that’s false -- a conflagration.

Grip the blade until the fingers bleed.
Walk through fire until the flesh is peeled.
Bite the teeth until they splinter and crack.
I will betray myself no more; it’s life or death. Attack!