every day, just that much more, my soul does run and hide;
every day, now and again, this mind is sorrowful,
it thinks of mundane repeatings and laughs at pity's fool.
for what is life, this everyday, if not that of motions gone through?
if not for person's emotions, on which imprint unto?
what is our being, if left distilled, in beakers and on shelves?
of quirky, orbiting atoms, and imminent ourselves?
but then, why should we think of things existential in nature,
when at the crux of everyday is being now and here?
again to sleep, with haunting dreams, and shallow sane descents,
again to rise, for present whims that daily decadents;
again to pass a slumbered wake of putrid, tasteless sounds,
again a day to turn anew, much like merry-go-rounds.
every day, an inch closer,
every week, if you prefer,
every month that passes now, remains that of a sinless slur;
every year, now gone - begone,
every time, that is forlorn,
every threshold reached for love and every hatred-leading scorn.
oh, let this hollow carcass lie, another day thus passes by,
along the roads that pave this way, that lead us more and more astray;
a wish for may,
and spring today,
where loves portray,
with much dismay,
this bitter heart of moulded clay;
it breaks that much more every day!
steampunk, woo!
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