A lucid ochre paint of dawns
Is splashing rust upon the sky
The clear days have long been gone
Swept up by catchers in the rye
High grass is no more there to hide
A wasteland is a word that fits
When you get drawn astride, aside
By your own thoughts, by their decrees
You’re hunted by your own mind
The reason of all sense being lost
You’re rendered deaf, and dumb, and blind
By your own yearn to pay the cost
To pay the price for all the debts
Your guilty conscience deems innate
This weight deprives of any rest
This obligation says you’re late
For anything but laments wry
No changing god when god was burnt
The moment you believed your plight’s
Too far gone to be overturned
And overboard’s the only way
Out of the miseries and strives
The devil’s in the crafty play
That writes details of our own lives
The queen-of-night does run the show
Its sick malevolence fills in
The air, just nowhere to go
You’re falling down within your dream
Whether it is the test you weather
Or fight that you believe you won
You’ll end up lying in thick heather,
Reminiscing about the sun
You’ll end up crying in deep slumber,
The sunset urged its words, so sleep
Until you’re waken by the rumble
Of sunrays piercing through the deep