A raven sits outside this hour
Teardrops turn from sweet to sour
Dark descends, though they don’t cower
In this dead of night
A little horse may have no fear
But naught is there a farmhouse near
Clock strikes twelve; midnight we hear
As bells chime in respite
‘Tis a valley; pit, to some
Housing their clock’s pendulum
No Romeo to save one from
The shadow poised to fright
No end exists to this sidewalk
‘Twas built with pen, and ink, and chalk
Path laid by word’s righteous talk
To aide internal plight
Hearts tell tales of roads not taken
Death won’t stop so pray, awaken
Naught to see, for there’s a stake in
That which guides our sight
Nod to They for inspiration
Places gone, minds mold creation
Still, they rise in narration
Here with us, tonight
How the World Should Work 