The bags beneath my eyes are swollen now,

   I have grown tired of my impending isolation.

The walking of Night enlightens the void,

   Hidden from my demons.

Colors do not exist as colors,

Anymore, but only as imaginary displacement of sensation.

And Shapes do not exist as shapes,

Only as Figments of my Imagination.

The walking of the Night conjures solitude within my person,

For the Night has never forced me to lock myself away,

Within my Person.
       
       I Stand before my peers

      In the gallows, 

     Gathering ideals for accumulation of acceptance.

     I have not slept in years

    All of my pride I have swallowed,

   Deterioration of Mental Culmination.