Blinkers on, I'm turning into something I don't recognise;
Demons wafting through this light littered city as smoke and puffery:
Surely we killed off the devils and angels by now;
What need faith to explain away the night skies natural fires
As death in its penultimate summoning of the soul towards the sky
Would see merely a sparse collection of lights north and south of the stratospheres...
Morose, Morbid Melancholic and Melodic;
If only I could summise something greater than the parts of the whole
The words become more than words - books become poems, paragraphs beautious cadences,
The longer the life the lesser the requirement to understand it distinctly.
May I suffer always under the miscomprehension that I fully understand what it is to be a man.
For that would be heaven enough.