No man can understand
the ever-shifting sand.
We see them in our dreams;
the sight never redeems.
Still blackened hearts will beat,
broken and incomplete.
No thought may ever delve
long past the hour twelve:
The night rejects mortals.
I look through dim portholes,
my heart longing to stay.
But soon invades the day.
No morning ever shines
without its dreadful fines:
From me, not just my sleep
day takes, but stabs the deep;
the visions of my heart,
I’m only left a part.
No joy in life I find,
and yet the part I bind
into collections dear
—their loss I dread and fear.
All kept within my heart;
All formed into my art.
Tale Told 