The night has grown dark, and even the owls seek rest.
Nothing is left now with me, except my thoughts,
Thoughts of the cogs of paranoia turning in more fevered minds,

If, near death, I saw your face
With darkening sight, I’d shatter
The thousand nervous lies and change
Them all to wordless smiles.
In them ten thousand mouths would scream

This life, like all before
Has beginning, middle and end.
Some searching souls know this too well
And proclaim it over the moaning winds.
When at long last the world shakes them rudely