"On his tower, staring off at passing people,

His eyes, wonder, ponder, fall for falsehood,

On his tower, staring off the blank edge, darkness

Sets the stage for horrid daydreams siphoned off by

Black cans, black ink forced on black page. Living poor sage.

On his tower, writing words that fall on deaf ears,

Writing prose of fiery women, writing silly blue songs,

On his tower, privy he is to the rising

Of the infant red moon, screaming babe at every

Aching hour passing slowly as the sun eats

Every last bit of the deathless timeless brushstroke

The light moon could offer. Awake through the cleansing

On his tower, awake through the passing horror.

Walk around with masks of soft clay, every living moment -"

​

- Alek Revel