Oh you, dearest you.
Looking forward to seeing the coming of another day.
Oh me, dearest me.
Looking forward to the coming of what may.

Sitting here, chatting here, laughing here, crying here.
"Where is here in the world outside?"
We both laugh. There is no answer.

The clock is ticking, but only in one direction.
The sun is beaming, but only the light.
The eternal present, the forever now.

The sun rose in it's morning glow,
To the world it gives all to show.
The birds chirp and flower bloom,
"So warm! So bright! It ought be soon!"
My eyes have yet to close.
And so I ask: "when do I sleep?"

The hanging light from the sky above,
Bereft the land with shadows below
The predator stalks the ignorant prey,
For life goes on with apathy to prays.
My eyes have to close.
And so I ask: "when do I sleep?"

The fire ceases past the horizon far,
And guidance is lost in a night of tar.
The living lost in the land of dreams,
Where even wisdom can no solace bring.
My eyes have yet to close.
And so I ask: "when do I sleep?"

Shade eternal covers the land,
Doom inferno prepares to band.
My eyes have yet to close.
And thus I ask: "when I do sleep..."
Yet there is no longer anyone to hear,
And so I ask: "when do I sleep?"

The sun rose in it's morning glow,
And once more I look to show
For I have no eyes that I can close,
No longer.

Ah, the fleeting irony.
The scent of that sweet fragrance,
Fragile as the mist in the morning sun.

In whose lens do we view this world,
When naught have begun to wake?

Weeping in this night of solity, I seek
The pupil of another.
And so wakes the dream. Whence I see the blazen wheel of fortune
Landing upon-
Nothing at all.

Man is born a creature unlike itself.
One million aspirations bouncing around itself,
Energetic, effulgent, indefinitely wishing for itself,
That it ought to become all that is not itself.

But time wears at the spirit of that self.
Entropy robs them of identity, of will, of self.
They build their own cages of codes for itself.
While that cage rots and weeps under the pressure of itself.

Yet all that is are not that which is not themselves.
You cannot be you and also everything else.
What are we if not birds in a cage, awaiting itself,
That it will one day die, and became all that it isn't once more.

The clock ticks restlessly on the plain wall.
Black rim and quartz glass make up its form.
Always just a quarter ahead of
the actual time which I want to know.

And I look at it, stare at it, for
I still can't make clear those inscriptions.
When is where and who is what is there?
I still can't make it out quite so clear.

And as I stand to move to elsewhere,
I glance once more to that empty wall.
To find nothing there at all.

Like rays of judgment.
Like seeds of love.
Like beads of wrath.
Like those of madden gods.
Like pills of incontinence.
Like marbles of glass.
Like the will to grief.
Like those of an innocent child.

3 times, eternity.

At first I woke in a sea of red,
In that infantile state where consciousness ceases.
With nothing but a desire to feed,
Or perhaps not even desires at all, in that endless peace.

At next I spoke in pitch darkness of game of chance,
A coin flipped by another.
"You needn't show me," I needn't fall in a trance,
Out-coming a grief ever greater.

At last I do not remember, that state of divine bliss.
And who can remember the sacred emotion that cease?
So I seat myself in thorns of despair, quietly in diss.
Which is precisely what granted that memory to decease.

3 times, eternally.