(spoken word kicks in at 1:58... Yea, you gotta wait) 

NOSTALGIA AND THE FALL

When the hourglass cracks
And the moon dictates the lapless, wanton tides

I, like a tempest dance.
Whilst simultaneously
Attempting to hide
From all that came before.

Shards of glass may pierce the soft wanting flesh of my self-deceit.
Lessons learnt sweet, as...
These cowboys of old
(With their haggard faces)
Are replaced by the glittering charlatans of new.

I, dance like a tempest.
Yes.
I am tainted but no, not slew.

Poetry is borne out of prose
As the sweetest of orange
Fades somewhat brusquely into blue.
I am nowt but this reverence
I am everything in view...

Sand falls effortlessly through the gaps
Of my fragile, paper fingers;
Like the deathgrips
Of memories grown cold.
Each grain whispers my name into this void of utter wordlessness, yet...
I am unchanged.
Somehow my dear, though
I will never quite be the same.
Hands reach out
Slowly
Imperceptible
Awe-ful
As ink floods the canvas,
Until finally, I am home.
In a cloudless sky
What else do I hunt (sweet Nostalgia) but this reverence?

I, still dance like that tempest
(hot, bitter and sweet)
Yet am full to the brim
With inertia.
Patience my only harbour now,
As I swim towards shores unknown.

When that hourglass finally shatters
And the moon slips behind the horizon of forgotten tides,
I am Slowness
I am Seneca
I was always Nostalgia; I am Death's willing, eager bride...
Never yours, darling, always mine.