If I deprive myself of such a motionless state
Wouldn't my mind rest assured--
Meanwhile producing the art in it's entirety?
I will maintain restlessness in order to conflate
Could it be such a mistake after all that I've endured?
The work so mighty and fiery, oh how so the irony.

As I lie static on the floor, gently squinting my eyes
I see individuals with clocks, displaying their lies.
Their countenance's display regret and dwell in quiet despair.
I linger until the twilight hour hits the interior within the lair.
The clocks tick unceasingly; not even suspending to contemplate a surrender--
In the dead of the night, my consciousness I will never once render.