Soon,.. the ever decaying ember of day, will stumble out of angry words to say. And the Sun's wishful thinking, thought return, will cease it's careless, wobegone burn. The streaming billions, both man and beast, will settle from their consumptive feast. To drift into uneasy sleep, knowing the morrow, will not keep. Dreams to dream, a thousand ways, To keep us from our angry days.
you just have said words on that i feel in some of muy dark hours, then i my sickess is taking over..
