Failing light gives way
Bit by bit
To the deepest of darkest nights
Where few have courage to tread,
And none by their very own will.
“There is no grief like this,”
Whispered the man who is the end of his kind,
For none will bear his name,
Even those who remain of his tortured breed,
For the end of the road has truly come -
Where blacktop meets the desert sand,
And no life wanders near,
Save for predators
Who know of his approach.
Was loneliness a burden so deep
That it compelled him to burn his lair,
Feeding furniture and art to the flames;
Life on fire
And nary but tears to quell the blaze.
Cry out, man!
Respite lives, were it not for your own denial,
But you are an impostor amidst a sea of seers,
And there are no secrets in your soul,
Say all who know,
And all know.
Draw your compass in your hand
And remember that north is true ,
Ponder carefully the lines on your palm
For reflection is no longer a trusted cohort,
As it never could be;
Rather, it is the mirage of your life.

Beware the lonely night;
Even as bright angels faithfully attend
It is the darkness that draws you in.
Death, indeed, has cast her foul breath upon you
And your stride is no longer strong.
It is you, lost son, who hears not truth,
And your map,
Like pale reflection be,
Is the mirror of your own destruction,
Haunting you,
Taunting you
On the silent sands of ruin
Where all goodness falters;
Victim of your determined march to Hell.
Can you not hear Hosea sing?
Sweet voices swelling with the nectar of the gods,
As mankind looks on in terror
While plays that familiar rhapsody,
Until we are all tearfully resigned,
Knowing that here
You will not be saved,
Once again victim
And perpetrator be.