The loathing is strong on this man
The breathing is hollow in this man
The death is coming closer, to his human frame
The breaths are getting shorter, and wheezier
Reminds me of homeless men, that share the same death
But different beds
Faces that some of us don't and some don't recognize
These are friends we never meet
Windmill falling on the ground, run for better
Begin in the round, tiles living it on your steam
Rocketmen and daydreams are just a beginning
Moving from street to street looking for new beginnings
Introducing yourself to different delights and politesse
The broken streets, flickering like candles
They turn darker than the stars, and shadows that hide
As the sun shines on them all, I see them rising behind
Virgins do make much of time and gathering ye rosebuds
While ye may, in the forests of the grey, that need to be graced
The death of man closes like the book of dead authors