I can hear the record of time, in my static...
I'm beginning to think of this as my interview...

He's only wheat, bending with the wind
Struggling not to buckle and break...

It's not so ill done beneath the light of the sun
That is stark and bleak in the crystal encrusted...

Is there help for the faceless ones
Or are they so cold and condemned...

They will burn
Self-inflicted inflammation...

We don't care if the clouds pale
Floating beneath their dying moon...

In your thunderous, neglected contempt and mirth
Utters of pain and past torment renewed...

Burning yet in the dark is a conscience
Still finding a glow in the gloom...

My eyes look back, a foreign gaze carelessly...
Have I ever looked upon the faces of the vast...

What is it that these fiends that stalk the...
Find of pleasurable interest in me...

Too cold is the night tonight
Only the moon above to hold my hand...

It seems so pathetic of me, a palsied husk
To sit so feebly here to ponder upon such great...