Last night I heard a little bird,
struggling with a broken wing.
Agony chirped away its words
As gushes of hail thrown by wind....

In the valley under a moon-less sky,
dreams are dashed with a question why.
The angel weeps with both eyes shut,
the night fills with blood thirsty bats.

Final dreams are hop and scotch dashed
as the drum beats and hear the final brass,
there's a horrified inner child to a pointless late,
and we are whirled in by the delicious  bait.