The Great Needles.

Between the deadlines i lie still.
All that begins shall end one day.
Hope is lost in this page.
It might dawn on yet another. I know not.
Certainly not in this dark night.

Sea of fizzing stars of sephia and gold.
Drown me in thy embrace, take me away
from this horrendous thirsty night.
From this feeling of folly growing everyday.

For most grow wiser through each passing day.
Methinks that i must have been excluded from
that most exclusive list of geniuses.

For the most specular of us may see our mistakes,
But we may never remedy our foolery. The days
grow old, the night grows young. Nay. Not the night
of partying and carousing, but the night of our youths.
But even that youth in time must grow old and must die.

But what of a those who are wont to divert their desire to grow up,
Of those who are forever youth? would they perhaps
sustain the rush and tides of the sting and prick of the
thousand million trillion needles, all in synchronisation,
all together, all leveled, against their slaves, who run

In wild abandon, to seek that spark, to set ablaze something that all
shall see for miles around. They hate the children.
Something they cannot embrace. For all their sophistry,
skill and struggle. They cannot. For those that have slavern before
The Great Needles flee too fast to pause in wonder.
And seek that which was anything other than was the natural order.

So lies all huddled the children. Hated by the driven slaves of order.
Alone but for one anothers' befuddled visions and illusions, some of truth,
some of destiny and of fufuilment, others of mere light and spells.
Echoes keep them company, other then each other they have.
Echoes of what the slaves intone foolishness.