Why Don't You Get Dressed and Come Down?

Picking up pieces of myself after dropping everything for a few, and
The attestation you endlessly display leaves me with only one truth.
The dilemma I always allow me to face gives rise to obsolete excuse:
The problem's not the lack of concern, but its aroma that will confuse.

Why don't you get dressed and come down here,
With these adversaries, these rivals, these foes, these
Merciless creatures, come here to hunt, come here to wrinkle your nose?
I can't understand why I just don't want their patronizing time!

They're legends, like us, who've been through the game,
Who've stretched the austere limits of their mind.
You'd think we'd put as much into healing the world as we put into the find!
But sure as Satan sits upon a throne, I will come down, in time.

Under the hour glass of ice again, and I eagerly bury the awareness.
A single truth reiterates fear, just reminds me, more or less,
That I've been here before, a deja' voo, an overexposed picture in time,
A blurry representation of who I once was, outlined in murderous rhyme.

Oh, why won't I get dressed and go down there? Each time has been so cruel.
Hardhearted trolls searching for substance that they then swathe like fools.
I can't imagine why I don't want to go down there, drawn to what is untrue:
This constant lust for your freezing touch though every puff splits me in two.

So I put on my most elegant falsetto, and beat myself inward with each step.
When and where will I find myself then, and were you asleep as I slept?
Every day leaves me breathless from voicing the questions that always remain.
Every time I go down there, I wind up here, still sitting, still the same.