• I called the last crest of the moon,
    forwarded it to those who had forgotten,
    and anyone else daring enough to pass,
    with hard eyes to soften.

    To wish upon this speck of life,
    of thought which was yet to be tarnished,
    to be led by a pocket knife,
    the edge dulled by the passing.

    Splintered,
    withered,
    and lost,
    gathering moss from the large oak trees,
    and knocking against silent knees.

    Ahead nothing to look forward to,
    behind nothing to look back on,
    the melody sweeping through,
    like a black bird's song.

    Realize nothing,
    to which their may be something,
    grabbing your hand,
    and dragging you through the wet sand.

    But when you find something precious,
    the words constantly ringing in your head fade,
    as the wood continues to twist,
    upon the once dull blade.