Looking back there are holes
In the sky where you try to remember.
How her voices were fated to be late,
And trying a little bit harder
Everytime to trace the fainted echoes.
How I am not missed by your ghost–
My uttered horrow, when I came clear off the spiral
And see the seperate ways demarcate.
Singing downward the chorus of the muses,
Our dramatis personae is nowhere to be seen.
The frontier where they exchanged fire,
Making sentences we do not understand,
Sure our protaganist is lack in subject matter.