Lips do not close themselves,
there is always a maker behind the shelves,
a tall and looming frightful me,
oh if only I could blink and let it be.

Do not let your eyes reflect,
the subtle sadness of intellect,
is all a lie, a gentle hack,
when you open your eyes you can't look back.

Mournful doves on willow's peak,
their braided wails and whittled beak,
do heed their call, a cry so shrill,
for in ending remains only nature's will.