Two moaning moons for tomorrow
Four glamorous mirror for a marrow
In our desert throats;
Lies water in its peak
For a beautiful deceitful fantasy
Lies beauty in its doom

What we await does not wait for us
What we align does not linger for our sake
If hope will nod for hoes
And faith a bride in waiting for thugs
An awaiting tomorrow for slayers
Why should we not hope for hopes yet to be hoped
But by our lingering shadow lies an autumn rose that reminds us that tomorrow smells better.