A stalking silence, steeped in sleep, unveils the waking deep,
From slumber into encumbered blunder, a plundering of dreams.
He walks amid the darkened sky, beneath the light of moon,
Seeking, hungry, ever-burning; a pale flame in full bloom.
A second mind that sees the real, amidst its feigning loss,
False the hood and true the cloak, veiling all he sought.
With implement of time on hand, he holds these bitter seeds
Sowing them within a ground so frail beneath his feet.
As above, so below, the parlor casts its gaze,
From heaven above, a heavenly host beholds these fleeting days.
Hallowed are the fell night hours beneath a sabbath's sky,
Still remains the truth of days, numbered throughout time.
All fall here, slain.
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