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The Answer

Lyrics and music by Cary Grace. © 2009 Cary Grace. All rights reserved.
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Agents of anarchy, whirling in scarlet,
Pounding a rhythm of blue.
Beneath the ocean, the night is eternal—
I'm tumbling, luminous, through.
Through the terrible window,
a plague of connection
Consumes all the letters you sent,
But why would I shatter in thousands of slivers The meaning, to know what it meant?

On the edge of a blade,
At the turn of a corner,
At the top of the sky
In the golden light wander—
And there is the answer,
Always, the answer—
But when is the answer
Always the answer?

I know I am not real,
but the knowledge is helpless—
I'm rattled by blindness of sight,
I'm spinning on wheels, and turning on tables, Dropped from an impossible height.
And now there are words
where there should be spaces—
White sky filled with birds with white wings— This much is clear: nothing here is transparent. The truth, unfamiliar, it rings.

On the sparkling eye,
On the drift of a feather,
In the dome of the shade,
We will wander forever.
There is the answer,
Always, the answer—
But when is the answer
Always the answer?

On the crest of a tear that is falling forsaken,
On the burst of a flowering joy,
The reaches are endless—we follow the river— That which we create, we destroy.
And deeep in the caverns,
Most desperate of whispers,
Whispers a word still unknown—
Drowned by the seagulls,
The syllables falter,
Fall under the paradox drone.

At the end of the wind,
On a wave of confusion,
With the politic prince
On the throne of illusion,
There is the answer,
Always, the answer—
But when is the answer
A lways the answer?

Come with me now, there is no time remaining! Upon perilous carousels whirl—
Gathering ghosts drift like pale ballerinas,
In costumes of opal and pearl.
Run from this place!
I was never a dancer!
All the motions are only for show.
This is demolition, this is revolution—
The only way left we can go.

On the brink of collapse,
In the terror of sundown,
On the bridge 'cross the chasm,
S tanding outside the picture,
In the wheelbarrow mouth
O f the captive announcer,
On his tightly stretched skin,
Chasing metronome whiplash,
Deep in eyesockets burning
Over mountain range rushing
All the furniture useless
To any remaining
Dehydrated husks
Of the mountaineers crumble
Bolted to avalanche,
Driven through snowdrift
And whenever they speak now,
T hey are saying the same thing:
There is the answer,
Always, the answer—
But when is the answer
Always the answer?

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