Cycle of a Conscience
I march upon this severed hay
No one had warned me of this day
Taken from it's root for good
Obliterated ground underfoot
I stride along alone with you
The crisping scent of morning dew
Fills the air, with it I breathe
The bitter taste of no reprieve
My mind tricks and starts like waking sleep
Playing upon my thoughts most deep
Spinning them into a twine
A wretched thread of thoughts unkind
And as I now lay down to rest
Twine gathers round upon my crest
Neatly folding turn by turn
A spindled wick ready to burn