Lying Ground

The evening turns a gloden shade of grey
Here I lay in the quivering hand of fate

The septic convolutions of time leap in broken explosions
A fallen son of myself, I little more than wait

In a b******s skin, laboring eyes thin and sunken
A ruptured bud, blooms as best it can

Half hails the sun, half hails its failing shape

The vauge sky turns to dieing
under the shadow of the ground on which I lie.