The water at my feet can no longer be called the shallows.
My eyes sink into my head as I walk drearily to the gallows.

Scars on my hands tell pages of truth,
the misguided anger of my once youth.

The days I spent eating hoppers in grass,
drinking in every sunset as if it were the last.

Swallow my soul, O sweet shade, so that pain may abate.

I face, again, my last sunset.