Who would span the linkage of the days, and to what earthly end would the toll of time send me breaking to?
And would the ferryman play sticks and stones with my crumbling body or would he have me throw the bones and tell of fortunes squandered?

I
have nothing left to tell of what bridges I have walked across,what joy and loss I found in mansions and in tenements,now
in Coventry sent there by my family in silent wandering I see the chain stretching out in front of me.
And who would join the dots to make this picture right,to read this epicure I spread upon the leavings of my night?
I write,I write until the brightness of the bursting sun comes round again to burst this bubble and in pain,I shout,I shout or scream and cry and when the sun would die tonight,I write,I write.

He,
inside of me knows well the moments and he counts the minutes,strikes the hours and all that passes in between are him and I,the sun waits patiently for me to cry.

Let the artisan then span the chasm that keeps me from the other side and let the ferryman glide well across the waterway.
Let my day be joined with all the other days,send the breakers in as I go gently out with the ebbing of the tide.