Each letter I've built with brick.
Mortar made of my night's lament.
Every poem littered with soot
and tattered footprints that skim.

I've bellowed over the valley's forge;
indeed on through to forever more.
Still, the hours draw with no return.
The phantom's vigil is all for naught
when a crow roosts upon it's jump.

I shall be done akin to the fallen king
who so heavily bears his mangled crown,
with quill in hand pecking feverishly
away at the hourglass's quick sand.

My final few words will be that of a book
reveled by many yet thumbed by none,
"I've finally rid myself from this contraption.*"