There comes a time when the dawn turns to dusk
Without the shift of the afternoon;
And we will all make the discovery, that, in this world,
It’s pointless to assume and remember
The sunlight on our hair
Or the moon that stilled on our palms
Like a memory that would only leave nostalgia
So vivid it hurt.

There comes a time when we look to our clocks
And marvel at how terribly we have lived:
Where we look to the sky, remember the shape of stars,
That have whizzed by us like flies without wings in the summer wind.
The minute hand will move forward
The longer we stared at it,
The less we would feel. The less we would wish
To sing like Orpheus to our hypothetical Euridyce,
To instead finally perish at hell’s gate,
At peace with ourselves.

There comes a time when we create the celestial masses we have missed
With our own bare hands;
When, to the sky, to the splitting and bleeding sun assassinated with the dawn,
We will marvel at how our God has died
And build a new one.
In our own hands, the balls of our palms engorged,
We will take the stars’ blood and drink it like a libation.
We offer it to our God;
To ourselves.
For we have long left the bruised night sky,
And instead we have learned to bandage our own cuts,
Which leak the golden blood of immortality.

There comes a time when we realize that we have been long dead.
Our feet in the ashen plains,
Our eyes on the wandering clouds that collect soot,
Our knees in the dirt,
Our hands clasped to beg for the ticket to heaven.
We’ve been trapped in hell like it’s the only place on earth,
And we’ve stayed here because we had forgotten.

There comes a time when we remember. 
We remember the feel of sunlight in our chest, moonlight on our mind, 
how we had 
burned & burned with desire then 
froze & froze with all of the hatred in the world; 
when we had stilled with indifference like stone,
how we turned our backs to ourselves and to the light. 

Remember when your silhouette was cast on the blades of grass each season? How your shadow would turn, Searching for someone to stay with? How you have reached out your hand to anyone who was willing, how you looked out into the blue of the ocean and mistaken it for the sky? Remember when you stood on your own empty stage, / Looking to an audience worn with sadness and age, / Crying for applause that would never appear / and speaking for anyone who would lend their ear? / What was it like, when you startlingly realized, / That the only people watching were those with dead eyes? / That the only person who would ever pay attention / Is the torn down figure of yourself, staring with condescension?

Let yourself mourn,
For the loss of your own.
Let yourself grieve,
For forgetting and remembering.
Let yourself fly
Away into peace
And escape this foul realm,
For you are The Beast.