I Pity the Preacher

You think you understand this verse.
You think you know your way around
the blade.
But you don't. And let me tell you why.

I've visited the place where thoughts begin.
The light narrows behind the mathematical angles, and time captures itself for a moment. Of course, I give it control. I have no choice.
So time wraps itself around me, and I let it.
I found out a long time ago not to run. When you race against your own mind, you never cross the finish line.
The finish line...
this is the end. If you go too slow your body will surely decay slow, and your spirit will writhe with ignorance, and never find its own... conclusion.
If you go to fast your body will rot too quick, and you will lose the spirit you were chasing after for so long.

I watch you compare yourself to a gallon of stout. Legs crossed and red imprints on your skin from the pressure of your elbows on your knees. You move your hands too fast up that container. You pour your cup too slow. You take your taste too quick.
I watch you try it many different ways. Maybe mixing up the order will change the outcome.
But no, you find it's still the same. And you hate it. You hunt it.

You think you understand this word. This blood. But you don't.
You lay your sleeping head, human on my faithless arm.
The cycles of colours run through my eyes.
As my own mind suffers to keep a steady pace. The right tick.
I can't, I can't... but I try to tell you why.

You don't visit the family I do. Sparkling, sharp point. Wooden handle embraced.
Maybe I can cut out my own reality. Make my own mathematical horizons.
In my explanation I am already lost...

And this is why, you think you know your way around the blade, but you don't.