Shifting hues and aligned to the sky
My past was written before I was alive
Marked and placed upon the markers
Where the channel meets the bay
Where the dead men lay

The risidual meaning is lost
Cast to the mornings memory dormant and festering

Like the wounds that cater to our premise
The absolute in sound reason
Yet it finds anyway to deal the final blow

The oaks obscure my view
But I Iong for the sky
And the cicadas scream in unison
I to wish to be heard for miles

But the same act that I perform
Only produces a whisper

Without an ounce of remorse for those around us
If only our days weren't so cloudy
If only I had learned to communicate properly

I never intended to poison the well
But I've laid my broken hands upon it.

The tranquil sedation that follows
The saddened lethargy of our triumphant misery
Is but, of course, a retrospect
Malignant and ill-informed

We as the quiet, sullen children of our blanketed apathy
Store regrets upon the tallest shelf
And let our happiness scour the earth without guidance...