Morning streaks on and off, upon such day dream 's oft, phasing off in horizons vast, leaving dry memoirs of whimpering shadows.

I know not whither its stacked, for modern art about it isn't right, only a moment of joyous time, lives its tasteless nothingness on my mortal tongue.

I crave the days of vain glory, upon whence dreams were factual, as we'd play the scenes of immortal villain, in a twilights wisping gore.

Heard i then of the 'ole farrows, whence the waldenses shallow lays, in bays of non grata and servitude, for a course whispered in lisping song.

I wist the end of the morning, for to be silhouetted before a cloudless fore, as i be brigandaged on the nights coming alure, then to live for me is Christ.

©bjonterrence