Perhaps its best we cannot sleep
That eyes burn
That fingers weep

In the morning, should we still blink
The breath returns
The feeling sinks

Under the noon, where dreams are cold
The chest will collapse
As memory folds

Before the sea, where light is frail
The arms will creak and wrap
Around the shallow pale

When favour leaves the lame and young
They will speak in toothless tone
They will pay to use their tongue

As statues lead the morning choir
The children all wear shoes of stone
For fear of seeing any higher

The willow bursts and spring combusts
Onto the row of newborn nimbus
A sight beyond our awe or disgust

The angels lift us off the ground
To the gilded cliff of old Olympus
Where heaven was murdered by one last sound

The stale sound repeated, and pounded with sour trembling rasp
The sun was defeated, retreating a coward with the angel's gasps
As they too were shot, ****** dry by leech with pinioned skin
Now lay in their rot, plucked and beached on shores of sin

O, the sound of horrid noon
And every lasting ache
Came from the hidden moon
Begging me to wake