Destined as the servant to the night where

Your moon dreams of the dirt and the

Sharp tongue of your zealous will is only

Congruent with the salt in your mouth and

The approaching eulogy of the world



Lost in the patterns of youth and the ghost of

Your aches comes back to haunt you. And

The forging of change makes no difference

Memories fly through the mask of your life

Shielding you from time. The years that

Birthed the shell that you gained



Hunched over in apathetic grief with a disregard for

Steps except the one taken back. Perched

Up on a rope crafted in smoke / a sword

Wielding death that buried your hope



Focusing on light through the blinds. A

Slave to reality under a monarch in the sky

Lost in the patterns of youth where the

Windows shine brightly back at you