weary are the rested,
with the promise of content.
and weary are the heavy,
with time not fully spent.

there must be flies in the hills,
in the grass and ponds and streams.
nocturnal nostalgia numbs nonsense,
but nonsense returns in my dreams.

weary are the rested,
their sould not fully healed.
and weary are the heavy,
they need to dream revealed.

the flies in the hills are gone now.
the silence, it screams in my skull.
nonsense creeps in through the window.
nocturnal nostalgia numbed null.