The day falls short on an open valley,
while songbirds sing to a blooming orchard;
every note an open memory,
every breath, a beat too awkward.
For in her bosom does a king preside,
a ruler over a farm of shepherds.
Within his mind do desires fly
to the half-shut eyes of a latent Mrs.
With every step he falls asunder.
The night grows near and her breath, it thunders.
Two broken eyes mirror the sky;
the wrath of God shall hide his blunder.
His tattered hands and broken knees
cross the desert that his heart is under
and for many years his words did please
the half he'd never share with others.
As moonlight drips across widened planes,
the sound of horses kicks the dust in folly;
with every gallop do their riders play
a dark-lit game with the souls of envy.
Hear they the breath of wolves that lie
in wait of morsels marching down in plenty?
With solemn cries do sheep despise
the close knit ties of pact comradery.
Soon the day breaks over night
and left alone in his tired slumber;
the bosom of that which kings preside
over half pitched tents in lands of plunder.
He wakes to rub two tortured eyes
in the manner of which his slaves grew older.
Still the same in his cursed mind,
still insane from the spell he's under.