The sun, long ago unseeable behind the distant horizon, dark had crept past his inhabit. Even the fresh candle upon his mantle does little to cease the blindness. But he takes no joy in his pending quietus, she will not allow him to traverse the river of slumber. His cold and passionless demon shall cloud his mind, leaving it to search for lucidity which will never belong to his spirit. He will lay sleepless letting his mentation and fears argue with his necessity.
He stares from dark frowning eyes to an upper surface he had put long ago to memory, hoping this nightfalls moon's shadows will be unique. But like his ancestors' bones kept in their dusty urns they shall remain unrevised. So each twilight he is left in a crib that refuses its sole utility, and with teeth that cannot spit. Knowing that when the darkest and most violent hour arrives he shall be forced to greet it with wide and unfastened eyes.
-Johnny V.
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