Once upon his days,
should a man stand tall,
taller and loftier
than the highest of trees,
yet must he cast a wary eye,
for the saw and axe
do look on him to fell.

Shadows and ghosts
they eat at my soul
to old to feel the kick
to young to feel at rest
symmetry in a crooked line
acrid water that turns to wine
a cold patch in a heated room
voices in an empty hall
dark shapes in the corner of an eye
wish I could get some sleep
forever in peace,
in the last of these days.

An ashen face is who I really am
solemnity is the key to my soul
I wear the darkness like an encompassing cloak,
robes of black in the fields of gold,
selling secrets never to be told,
I hear the laughter behind my back
cackling, mocking at my disguise,
but I sing my song, a sedative reprise,
what of you and your sentinel ways ?
you'll never be me in the last of these days.