The hours tell a familiar story-
Of life unfolding without glory.
In an order of reality –
Pulled from the threads of dreams –
And woven together through living –
Despite the dead, and the undead.
Time resting and time jesting,
Patiently and impatiently,
The divide is simple, and holy.

From the threads of dreams,
Comes a hope of waking,
To a world illuminated through sight –
But death will follow,
Where death cannot lead –
Under the skin of the moment,
Until the living is done –
And sight is no longer possible,
Without light from the forgotten sun.