A shepherd's grasp, dazed.

He was decreed to shield them,

But they insist to inspect the line.

The line that appeared once so bold,

Now so curved.

He only behaves for the best of the flock.

Should he just arrest the contingency?

The bewilderment staggers him.

His misreckoning of their intent;

Burdening.

His speech is retiring, as he inquires about their discretion.

A manner too delicate to enter with confidence;

A second-guessing.

Weary soul, hear tell what is to be said.
Our juvenescence haunts us, taking the form of many things...
A smoke, a ****, a pop, a drop.
An excuse not to stop.

In the mean of failure,
The obsidian night remains,
And only darkens by the tick tick.
Sometimes, the answer to life sounds like a click click.

But the waves move once again.
Not in favor of those who turn a deaf ear.
They influence our preference,
In regard to our deference.

Sobriety seems overrated,
Words often said,
By those who **** their own mind.
How can we be so blind?

**** the influence,
The generation of foes who neglect the implication.
As for you my kin,
Don't think twice, as to avoid a grin.

In regard to my considerer, my reader, my councelor:

I voice a tongue few can fathom.

A tongue of coalition, kinship, synthesis.

A tongue of cigarettes, fire, ash; perishing by the flick of the inhaler.

A tongue of resonance, expression, silence.

A tongue of nostalgia, exuberance, regret.

I voice a tongue few can fathom.

I voice a tongue of the former, future, but not present.

I voice a language few can understand; this language, few can understand.

Dear traveler,
It derives as a stillness.
The timid muse, the quiet before a storm;
And the storm, it's at close quarters.
Be conscious of this.

Dear traveler,
You ****** the sound of silence.
And surely, the outbreak did come,
Did it not?
The torrent of corrupt introspection,
Arrives only to plague you, friend.

Dear traveler,
This interval has no expiration.
And no time to construe.  
The steps you brave aren't impeccable,
So hurdle the stakes,
For behind you is a fiasco.  

Dear traveler,
Proverbs of fire,
Are being spat towards the soul.
You are made of oil,
And rigged to explode.
This horde has not one heed,
Of how you emerge gold.