It hungers with patience, just waiting out the clock

  For the devouring one knows, deep in my bones

  That I must surely stop.

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  I know not the day. I know not the hour.

  I know I must strive forwards on what remains of willpower

  Then slump; exhaustion takes hold, my muse she flees

  Just weary, worn, embittered me.

  Old before my time, old still in my prime.

  This cage of flesh not enough endorphins it provides.

  Slumber, shuffle on, through dreary days turned weary days

  It matters not when the watercolour world was once oil.