At night, this mindless army, ranks unbroken by dissent,

is moved into action and their pace does not relent.

In step with great precision, these dancers of the night

advance against the darkness - how implacable their might!

Eyes undulled by moon, their arms and legs akimbo,

they walk and live, hoping soon to surface from this limbo.

Their minds, anticipating the dawn of the day,

shall never know what's waiting mere insight away

- too far, too soon.



Senses dimmed in semi-sentience, only wheeling through this plane,

only seeing fragmented images prematurely curtailed by the brain,

but breathing, living, knowing in some measure at least

the soul which roots the matter of both Beauty and the Beast.

>From what tooth or claw does murder spring,

from what flesh and blood does passion?

Both cut through the air with the pendulum's swing

in deadly but delicate fashion.

And every range of feeling is there in the dream

and every logic's reeling in the force of the scream

the senses sting.

And though I may be dreaming and reality stalls

I only know the meaning of sight and that's all

and that's nothing.



The columns of the night advance;

infectiously, their cryptic dance

gathers converts to the fold -

in time the whole raw world will pace these same steps

on into the same bitter end.



Somnolent muster now the dancing dead

forsake the shelter of their secure beds,

awaken to a slumber whose depths they dread,

as if the ground they tread would give way

beneath the solemn weight of their conception.

I'd search the hidden corners of all this world,

make reason of the sensory whorl

if I only had time,

but soon the dream is ended.



Tonight, before you lay down to the sweetness of your sleep

do you question your surrender to the drop from Lover's Leap

or does the anesthetic darkness take hold on its very own?

Does your body rise in service with not one dissenting groan?

These waking dreams of life and death

in the mirror are twisted and buckled;

lashes flicker, a catch of breath,

skin whitening at the knuckles.

The army of sleepwalkers shake their limbs and are loose

and though I am a talker, I can phrase no excuse

not to rise again.

In the chorus of the night-time I belong

and I, like you, must dance to that moonlight song

and in the end I too must pay the cost of this life.

If all is lost none is known

and how could we lose what we've never owned?

Oh, I'd search out every knowledge that I could find,

unravel all the mysteries of mind,

if I only had time,

if I only had time,

but soon my time is ended