And does the sun set any higher?
Have all horizons been so bleak?

Have I always been so tired?
Trite, not knowing what I'm underneath.

Said the stars unto the liar,
A prophet of us broken sheep,

In blindness I've been sired,
To close my eyes and fall asleep,
Five pence to the crier,
To warn me that ill never dream,
I just want to be inspired,
And see it how it could have been.

Lived my life a simple man,
A wave admits the sea,
Servant to a grain of sand,
Toppled by a serpent creed,
Never said 'I think I am'.
No originality to impede,
Died a death of a tired man,
With nothing left to bleed.

Are these the words that rest on death,

Or a saturated glimpse of doom,

Upon the crisp of shattered rest,
A cliff basking in its renoun'd gloom.
In a shadow of an hourglass' request,
In the waning of the moon,
To fall upon an age'd interest,
And kneel beneath its groom.
O'Lady art thou direst,
In the depth of night coldly slew.

A conscious act of contest,
To sway me to a different tune.

No leopard ever changed its spots,
Nor sheep sheered its wool,
My blood has never learned to clot,

Or stomach said its full.

I wear myself as tattered cloth,

A veil unto its fathered spool,

As mother staves another chop,
betrayed, recive'd by sharpened tool.

And if that sun could break its bond,
Breach its chains of rehearsed agony,

And cast its stone into the pond,

Dye diffused with instability,

No wife has lived her life un'con'd,

And no thief left unshackled virility,

Until light ha been found,

From hiding within Atigone,

At risk of being un-profound,

Interest of owe'd salary,

To Maybe's change, in present, bound.

I don't know how,

I don't know why,
But sink too deep,
Beneath the sky,
But here I sit,
And here I pray,

To wait for it,
The end of days.

2:00 am