At Last, I see the Sun rise in the West

At last, I see the Sun rise in the West,
But I know it not to be so grandiose.
At sundown, I will lay with my love and rest.
And I shall see past the sea to Valimar, so far vanwa.

Praise be to Man, who's life is engulfed in death.
Simple things like paradigm shifts shape and shift
the world of windmills, who captures Mother's soft, breath.
Defy gravity and understand the reason hope is cause for souls to lift.

At last, I see the stars, and come to know them.
I see the quasars and the nebulae surround me.
They avoid attraction and attempt to make hem.
I see the architects answer them and have the Cosmos "Be."

Praise be to the artists, who's craft is rarely realized,
till they cease to live and pass from the real, to the surreal.
Dissatisfied souls never overcome the blues, and are never catalized.
Definite eternity is what makes mortals contemplate Time, and develop zeal.

At last, I can rest upon my window sill.
And speak unto the fool's mouthpiece.
Some say life is random, and that freedom doesn't exist in terms of Will.
Oh how they who deny the Soul must feel as descends death's breeze.

Praise be to the dead, who rest quietly under the ground.
How I envy their peacefulness and their all-knowingness.
Planets are related to my cousin and the Sun they revolve around.
The prince talks serenely about butterflies and dreams to the princess.

At last, I can see the atoms they have avoided my eyes for so long.
I walked out tonight, and I witnessed a Greek play in her garden.
I was told not to worry, supposedly their arena's location was wrong.
Atlas rebels against his younger enemy, Zeus, but his mind becomes hardened.

Praise be to the architects, who draw and build, and design.
The presiding generation feels superior, that they deserve special respect.
Damned be the politicians, who lie and twist, distort, and then resign.
But nay! Death shan't have such dominion, like two holes in the neck.