Swift, sweet the song line fleeting,
Smiles massacred, ash pale words bleeding,
Voices aching of the plague eating at suited minds
Like the melancholic goose
Whose eve is wrapped in two sunsets,
Anchored by sea shores
Whose sand cracks under the weight of memories martyred
Sleep walking through the empty speech that dusk offered,
It is but time to dye;
Dye dawn with the blood littered in ink,
To un scribble thoughts unsaid on scrolls
Hanging by dustless shelves of fops glory
Perhaps it is time to dye tombs,
Tongue less beings testifying with bones bred in clay
For if this be the last the skies breathe
Let ink and an old paper be the next of kin.
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