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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.