Conscious of the passages that hold things together like a wax drenched mold Heeded never are the decaying words Trampled is the grass by neighing herds Dog-less in the summer sun a wilted traveler weaved a tapestry quilted with the vignettes of despotic men who decease to cease only when the stage beneath gives way to wait and the whole theatre burns too late to save the northern lights from being seen by greedy eyes who keep seeing holes in the cheesy moon up left poked by Arcadian moles so deft So I pack my three things and depart for in walking by I've played my part. But the end never is the end, only for you when you've lost time to lend. Well I wrote that. Should I turn it in or what? He said were able to write anything.