O vessel of stagnant dreams, 
Beating against the tide of forgotten years,

Flowing in opposite waves, yet in cyclical motion
Thou art tormented by contoured simplicity:
Thou start the journey of today at morrows end, 
And end tomorrow at yesteryears beginning.

What warmth? So fire like in disposition,
Once a burning tower of naked madness,
Now ’tis faded into mysterious fog,
Like an echo fighting the abyss of vacuum,
Constantly craving the drug of enlightenment 
Whilst transcending into downward spirals, 
Gesticulating in deafening stillness,
Waiting for the next dose of hope
From the cannula of desolation.

Thy death has come, but I refuse to weep,
Dear friend, the dream is dead, but I will sleep.

 

 

 

— Sheamonspeare