Shadow’s dance on these wall’s,
my thought’s are like crumbling paper,
crunching with every word
my mind makes up.

My breath becomes a labor
of time and passing thoughts,
that I scribbled onto my paper.

Time becomes like the moon,
soon nothing will be left
but shadow
and visions of last night’s
dark plots and writes.

As always my muse passed away,
like a dark vision of blacks and gray’s.