It's fleeting and it's only ever a single chance you get to wipe off the darkness with the shroud of the sun.
The charcoaled and lifeless rot will stick until it vacillates underneath,
in between and then becomes carotid.
It will weight you down into its world of desolate beginnings and hope-filled finales.
Crazy is as crazy does
on this merry go round of destruction,
Upon it we sit, cemented each to our very own pretty horse,
staring in awe at the circular surroundings--
a view as well as a ritual tied to our fall.
There is no purpose under the sun,
Which the darkness will ever lead you to.
The rot will cloak you in failure and blind you from the brightest star.
You will never find peace,
and you will starve before the promised harvest.
Your one chance is now, but you take to the shadows to hide,
instead of basking in the warmth and freedom of the sun.