The mourning is led by looking forward
But if I turn on the light
I worry my rest won't come back
And I could at least try to save my neck the hassle
Sleeping on the wall
What's the fuss about
Feeding from the fall
What's the mess about
Keep my head from lifting
With no feral concern
For my lucid dreams
Or were they nightmares
That kept my old muscles
From spilling out their motives
Speaking unspoken
What's the rush about
Filling shades of blue
Thought they felt too black