sitting here staring at that blinkin' cursor
having nothing other than that buzzing...

Farther onward, always skyward;
high above, hurtling ever hard...

Entering through resplendent gates,
to where countless dead seek final rest...

wreathe of words sprout upon doorstep bed
beneath a far-looking moon, whisper to ear...

at that tender age when one still believed
openly bleeding wounds make for devotion...

sitting here staring at that blinkin' cursor
having nothing other than that buzzing...