The barren, haunted shade of suspicious work, that devours the triumphant diversity of the day, with its grey tedious persuasion, that makes black avenues of oak appear in the foaming dark seas of condition.
The toils of the day, coupled with the approaching canopy of the light, only increases the wriggling of the worm that is felt but unseen; that sickening ridiculed trick of devouring your sight and heady dreams.
The radiant crowd of the invincible sun is dispersed now by the ****** boil of feasts amongst friends. So, the once wondrous heights of noise and show, are now only composed in wet shade and cold verse.
The sleeping winds provoke your patience with drops of lies that seem to only sing. So, try to harmonise the song of mind with bribes to the boatman from a flattering tongue or shiny rocks once found.
The solitude once found in a puppets string, or the gentle brook with its mighty throng, are first both born and tranquillity touched; but then the scythe of shade sways within, leaving cuts and salty wounds dug deep.