In his shadow.
In his shadow, we cower for fear of upsetting his precious harmony. There's a balance of sorts, a system, but in actuality, the mechanism broke down years ago. Now we play mad hatter and sip pretend at the grand orchestra. We're the wind the strings the percussion. To hit the notes he wishes, to fail and fall short of his grand design. Behold the master of his own company. Dare not to upset the system.
There are faint whispers in the hallway. They steal away to kitchen and behind closed doors. There's talk and empathy. In his giant gallant stride, we scurry. We take his lead and follow suit. Like tin soldiers we walk to his beat. There will be no war games today, but maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a quick turn minute. His musical whims vary and flux in instances. His will and no other.
Fell an angel from his graces. Fallen too many from such great paces. Still his orchestrated vision cannot be undone. For every dissonant note for every mutiny, he deals but one swift cut. This is his house. Through the ether, his baton slashes it out of existence. There in its wake an empty shell to be filled by music or left forsaken.
He wields and wields and now he shoots flame and fire. In his wake, they tremble. He stamps his foot and lets it burn, together or none. The house shakes. It's foundations rumble. Under his word, in his honor, they will all go up in flame together now. Faster and faster he slashes his baton.
Now lose voice and make no drama. They whisper no more. There is no talk. Scurry now and hurry now or left behind and be slashed and burned. Stay close and keep pace, dare not step into the light and remain forever... in his shadow.
