The ink spills dark as lights are flitting on,
the thoughts and dreams and very souls of ours.
Though bright the future, waiting, poised anon,
it notices but flippantly our scars.

A man might make his words into a deed,
might voice his hopes too loudly and be heard,
or else might sleep his days and so accede
the universe refuses to be stirred.

We came onto this planet lame and cold,
with Time already plotting our demise.
But rue the world which fetters us in gold;
We see the black and gaze into its eyes.

The moon sits innocently, just and fair.
The Devil's footsteps kiss the evening air.