The moon hangs there, unfinished in the cooling blue, that last fruit left bending the limbs of the tree of sky. A dull stone, sinking slowly away from the trend of daylight, falling again and again outside the call of this burdened earth. A fractured beacon claiming more than its portion of sight. Yet another task incomplete, settled on the red side of the ledger.
Claim each chain that binds you, own each blade that burrows towards your blood. The work of the world will go on without you. The work of your life will always be just one more task, just one more try. Worn down by idle talk and unskilled labor, you slow as the change draws down on you. Worn through by bad thoughts and broken flesh, you are surprised you are still standing when the motion unfolds. The change takes you, but you leave what marks you may.
There is no respite, there is no consolation. Every victory leaves you little but alive. There is no room for effort squandered, no room for all these wasted days. The days gone to their graves will not rise again. The moon does not care for your worries, the sun does not keep track of your complaints. They rise and set, their time table eternal from our vantage, their duties ancient and unknowable. Every day there is one day less, every night you heal a little slower. The words fizzle and spark. The ends certain to sort you out, whatever that might mean.