Before the white globe of sun can show,
A sacrifice, a suicide of sorts, to grey,
The all-pervading grey, that whatever is
Known, however painfully obtained,
Is returned to the unknown
Like a turn of kneaded pastry,
And with the known withdrawn,
The basis for all actions, some moral core,
Is lost as well, and one wallows defeated
As readily as a bug falls into a hole,
Not even questioning why some instinct wasn’t there
To stop it, for in that moment, there was no sense
To make — only that desire, its force of will,
Was always wrong.
