Sleeplessness is a lonely kingdom.

I could promise myself discipline with the daylight,
but what if I told you that I lied under the moonlight?
Sinners never sleep,
sinners never sleep.

They lie awake and talk
with the wings of Gabriel.
They don't shut their eyes;
there are stories in the picture houses of their own.
Of lie and deciet.
And guilt and anguish.

They'll never sleep.

They'll howl with the night
and forget why they were meant
to darken their hearts to match the sky.

They'll never glow. They'll never beat.
I'll never sleep. I'll never sleep again.

In his seasons passing words wither and fade with the sunsets reprise.
These images paint portraits with grey backdrops tattered, twisted throwing stones across the pond only to hear them vanish in the dark waters below.

All the pretty flowers fully in bloom untouched by earth and unsoiled in the dirt of corruption of an existence lived in regret.
Bitter pills and torn pages have we not traded are truths to be lies created for are own protective womb of deceit to fulfill our ego.

All the pretty flowers wither just the same.
As standing skeletons left only to haunt the backdrop of our thoughts decay.

Are we not monsters?, Who once stood as men with great views whose vices consumed them turning us into something we can barely recognize ourselves.

Soil once fertile now seems only scorched a barren square of emptiness once were all things did grow.
All the pretty flowers mourn springs passing this concrete idealism for which no direction seems to suit us best.

I stand where here no longer will anything grow.

You hold upon your lips lines to poems I have been trying to finish for years.

It's a nuisance to leave dancing to chance
and to sit by and sigh a sigh of mild high relief.
It's brief, but for a moment there's courage
and the courage builds a bridge.

But "look out," comes a shout
from seemingly miles away
and your gaze blazes below.
There's a troll beneath you.

It wields a shield made of lies
and a club made of fear and dead wishes.
Make it swim with the fishes.
Silent let it be, and cross the bridge.

Beyond the concrete dance floor,
ignore the three harpies' bait.
Don't wait. It's not too late
to quicken your pace.

Tread carefully. Don't be lured
by the drunken eyes,
or the devilishly devilish propaganda
for *** on their clothing and skin,
because it will hurt in the long run.

Head towards the sundress,
and the toga dancing next to it.
They're friends of yours,
but not yet.

So don't repress your desire to dance.
Take your chances.