It hungers with patience, just waiting out the clock


    For the devouring one knows, deep in my bones


    That I must surely stop.


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    I know not the day. I know not the hour.


    I know I must strive forwards on what remains of willpower


    Then slump; exhaustion takes hold, my muse she flees


    Just weary, worn, embittered me.


    Old before my time, old still in my prime.


    This cage of flesh not enough endorphins it provides.


    Slumber, shuffle on, through dreary days turned weary days


    It matters not when the watercolour world was once oil.