the string slowly loses its tune
weighed down by dust
do you smell the residue of my fevered skin,
of nights that echo into days, fear and mistrust

hold the shadows at bay, masters of monotony,
creak the musty floorboards of that swollen mind,
cast the moldy anchor into those pregnant fields of wheat,
for there will come a time when there is
no freedom
to be found in the music of a ship