Rampant pungent whirligig
Pungent art of sophistry
That spins around the me like this
That fakes the night
The awe that gives
So sombre is what some might call it
In me it is the aegis still
The marking of no pleasantry
But still my soul
That cries again
Believe me when it comes again
Believe me when i cry and mourn
For in this awe
This awefulness
This wayward means of pleading long
A man lies torn and full again
Will spin for time
And like an endless gyre of god
Lie restless till it rests in me
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