The Tides of Marching

Betwixt the eyes, in ridges scorned,

Beseech the prayers we fear to laud;

Bemoan the words that slipped away

And remain apart from a better day. 

 

Again, the plans of mice and men

Pilfer these waking ides of thought. 

Best soothe these doubts derived again

Betwixt the eyes, in lines adorned. 

 

With quiet days comes life dismayed;

Comes peace afforded to none. 

For whilst a bed may numb the head,

We wake as far away. 

 

Patience sees no man in stead

Of the visions that forlorn him;

What could have been through trials unseen

Instead of what has come.

 

So fracture time to shards apiece

That may just fit as wondrous.

But consume the lot and stay as knowing

We've toed our own damned line. 

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