When the sky loses its sun,
And my days turn hollow,
Alongside my makeshift body,
I make my own, create my sun.

In the form of the menial,
The unwanted forms of joy,
Have to become my Earth,
As a morphed moon tugs the tides.

I’ve learned that cycles,
Must be met with a fire,
A yearning for survival,
That no one can see.

In the form of the menial,
The unwanted forms of joy,
Have to become my Earth,
As a morphed moon tugs the tides.

I am my own best enemy,
And they say you’d best keep them close.

The problem always becomes,
When I’m so completely blinded,
Lost within the impenetrable dark and,
Lead by the crescent moon into,
An utterly devastating state,
It’s only then that I will ask,
“Oh god, what have I become?”

“What have I become?”

In the form of the menial,
The unwanted forms of joy,
Have to become my Earth,
As a morphing moon tugs the tides.