The Crimson Rider (Gallows Frontier, Act I) - Wayfarer

Said the straight man to the late man "Where have you been?" "I've been here and I've been there And I've been in between" I talk to the wind My words are all carried away I talk to the wind The wind does not hear The wind cannot hear I'm on the outside, looking inside What do I see? Much confusion, disillusion All around me I talk to the wind My words are all carried away I talk to the wind The wind does not hear The wind cannot hear You don't possess me, don't impress me Just upset my mind Can't instruct me or conduct me Just use up my time I talk to the wind My words are all carried away I talk to the wind The wind does not hear The wind cannot hear I talk to the wind My words are all carried away I talk to the wind The wind does not hear The wind cannot hear Said the straight man to the late man "Where have you been?" "I've been here and I've been there And I've been in between"

The Dance of the Puppets The rusted chains of prison moons Are shattered by the sun. I walk a road, horizons change The tournament's begun. The purple piper plays his tune, The choir softly sing; Three lullabies in an ancient tongue, For the court of the crimson king. The keeper of the city keys Put shutters on the dreams. I wait outside the pilgrim's door With insufficient schemes. The black queen chants The funeral march, The cracked brass bells will ring; To summon back the fire witch To the court of the crimson king. The gardener plants an evergreen Whilst trampling on a flower. I chase the wind of a prism ship To taste the sweet and sour. The pattern juggler lifts his hand; The orchestra begin. As slowly turns the grinding wheel In the court of the crimson king. On soft gray mornings widows cry The wise men share a joke; I run to grasp divining signs To satisfy the hoax. The yellow jester does not play But gentle pulls the strings And smiles as the puppets dance In the court of the crimson king.

Decadent, nearly divine Their shadows dance like velvet moonlight In the mezzanine above, they applaud Transfixed by the dancers, silently awed The sterling attraction - the ballet of the gun Murder in cold blood, as art in motion Masquerade! They rise and they fall A pirouette, in the cadence of song One mask falls down, another appears It's not what they see (Not what they see) It is what they believe (What they believe) It is there, at the crux of their judgement Fantasy becomes the desire The tragic poem ends as it begun And the men in the masks in death will live on Awash in gold and velvet, with wandering eyes You feel it burning within you, you're paralyzed Please take my hand, and step into the night The great Dionysian facade Is held upon our backs The callous belief in blood elegant Perpetuating from fathers to sons Spiraling down Spiraling down Spiraling down the grand halls of the dream

A break in the sky, The horizon bled above - the dream was real, the storm gathered. The night rode on hellbound hooves, with vengeance in the saddle. A cracked whip, a grinding maw; A starved-eye stare and the weight of storms. No tomorrow! Only the trail - horseback, galloping to the pulse of the world. The thunder, the storms. A vengeance for the world's blood. A tower of flesh and bone - only blood for blood will sate the storm. At night they came, and brought with them thunder. A warcry for what was lost. At night they rode against oblivion, for a time that all forgot.

Dusk, a primal vibrant red; violent. Clouds, seeping color - the crows cry out war. The plains, they tremble - anxious, the night brings blood. The cold bitter night, awaiting flame and fury. Swift like the night, the riders descend. The braves circle around; torches to the night, arrows to the dawn. The smoke marks an early grave, it rises with the sun.