This Whirlybird Backward
is falling head first,
and painballoon minder
is ready to burst,
so the Sun sets its course
'cross the way.

With darkening rhythm
well-finding its time,
and saddest professor
admitting his crime,
the edges so blurry
of which, is the night, is the day.


So turn me to stone here,
and set me the shore, dear,
that I may erode,
in a well-favored way.