this same moon sits above the tree line
and with it’s light I can distinguish,
even in the bleakest of nights,
that line set against the pitch black sky

I grow cold
and my bones ache of age
as I languish here
drowning in this sea of irrelevance
this vile, slow torture
that awaits my every dawn

they look at me with a curious eye
that quickly turns to distant fear
those who sleep above their dreams
and question not their souls