So often does he never mean to play the fool,
But he can only build what will come from such simple hands.
And his failure is found often, and too often found cruel,
For it is only in this pattern that he finally understands.

Pursued by a desperate, predatory ache,
He seeks escape in the adventure of countless foreign lands.
Running from a truth he is too afraid to forsake,
For it is only in this pattern that he finally understands.

Denied any rest by the imprints of his memory,
His tired mind struggles to carry out his plans.
And in his most desperate hour she hears his soliloquy,
For it is only in this pattern that he finally understands.

Like a voice from the past, come calling does Death,
Holding a clock that’s ceased ticking and speaking hollow commands.
And so he succumbs to the Void his last breath,
For it is only in this pattern that he finally understands.