Maybe someday, I'll look to the sun
And I'll be able to resist its light.
I will watch it die,
For the three hundred and fifty sixth time that year,
But I will still cry for it.
(In just eight hours,
It will live again.
But truth is subjective,
So here I am
Mourning what will return.)

Maybe someday, crying will feel less like drowning
And I'll be able to breathe as I sob.
I will inhale and exhale through my tears
When my sorrow overwhelms me so,
But I will still keep my eyes wide open.
(In just a few breaths,
I will calm down and regain myself.
But truth is subjective,
So here I am
Choking when I can.)

There's a fifty-fifty 'tween my thighs
And a nostalgia for the drift of my highs:
When all was simple & all was well,
When struggling was just some hazy spell.
There's a hole where my sight once was
And here I am, still feeling for the cause
Of my blindness to the future
To the slowly unwinding suture,
Of my ignorance to the pain
To the grief of what will be slain.

My heart a field to which I escape
Getting by without much as a scrape.
In the grass I lie, blissful to myself
Cupping the space you will place thyself.

The sun bleeds into the cotton clouds.
The sky's color dims
And its life chases the fleeing star.
The murder of Celestia, day who knows how long,
And here I am.
Still singing this song.