Something obscures my sight, it may be a sign of the times or the night, but I can't see too clearly, my vision is best used when I'm looking back and the tracks that I trade are like beacons which made the fires that show the way on.

I walk with the weight of some years on my frame and each year bears the name of the one gone before, if each year was a door to go through then I went through them all, not remembering when but there must have been ink in my pen somewhere along the trade of the track, looking back it's all clear and that was the end of one more time of year, one more falling tear, one more thing to fear, but it's only at times when these things bring to mind the unfortunate apocalypse into which slips the man.

I can make a wish, but I can't find the lamp if I could I would wish that I wasn't this ***** that tramps back through the years and it all ends in tears yet again I still look for some words or a book to console me when the thing that obscures my sight holds on and controls me.

Anyway,
the day has been judged and found wanting more weight,
the scaffold's been built, but my sight is of late getting worse and
it's harder to see if it's me with a rope
or the last vestige of hope,
waving goodbye.