Thirty-four breaths in a shore-man's hand,
'Tween him and return to the ever-dead land.
One for love in the sad cloak of night
And again for those who care but slight
From hearts too starved to take what they might.

Loosen the cords, let another one go,
Slipping from sack made of backskin of doe.
So soon to leave with no room for reprieve
Or the suffering waste of those who grieve,
The visitor stays only to leave.

He stands in awe of nothing et al.,
So insignificant in the depth of it all,
So tiny, so blessed,
Just a grain with the rest
Dancin' 'bout a flame in the darkness's breast.

And then the dude just laughed 'til death,
Findin' that the best use of his breath.

This rough style really looks gnarlier than I had in mind following the more painterly images. I have more fun tooling around with new looks, though, so I hope you don't mind it too much.

-Tyrus Peace