Oh look, another sunrise; stranger seeps in his sighs,
and in the corner wall, paint stays chipped and sleep just sits and wines.
Fingers straddle temples worn; no more priest are in these halls;
fingers praise no golden fawn, all their touch is wasted...scorn.
Sunlight peers to see gone eyes; are there questions in these ties?
Or void just eating to be filled, by a memory with no will.