To the end of tyrant time

The Suffolk skyline moves to a strange elsewhere divide,
I feel a pain that no words can tell, as sunset burns lives and motion turns to
dust.

Soon I will disappear like that cloud I trace, unique never to repeat its shape.
Torn desolate loneliness remains, and this my landscape lover proves as
unfaithful as a tired prostitute.

All this life goes to a dancing wind that knows Hell’s tune so well.
If the sky had windows, I would open them and fly away now but, even then I
fear I would be chained to its iron clouds?

So let the torturing fading light mock my efforts to escape. Yes, let them mock me
to the end of tyrant time.

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