• Ode to whispers,
    haunting my every single slight of mind.
    The trumpet of insecurity, every wish-washing waste of time, space, life and realization burning the wax of my candles.

    The candle craftsman obviously had this one coming.
    Crafting time, old man winter's bite inside a fractured skull of unrest.
    Testing the cycle, breaking the code, it's all jibberish to me when time slows to an immediate curl, a snail's pace in the eyes of a giant.

    What good is this?
    You're missing, I'm missing, there is no infinite puzzle.
    No equation, no solution, but there is no riddle.
    What good is nothing without deprivation?
    "Appreciate the small things."

    That almost sounds convincing.

    Oh, gray cloud insomniac,
    what bestows the right to my dreams?
    It couldn't be the piper or the pendulum...
    It couldn't be the dreamer or the dream.

    Father Time escaped today.
    He left his belongings and told me to watch them for safe-keeping.
    How was I supposed to know he bottled sanity and sold it half-price from the back of a drugstore?