Many nigths I've lain awake, feeling a creeping

chill

Eventide it's clear to me, that most of my life

is empty

Riots fill my head muting my inner noise of

constant songs

Content to have anything break my life's

monotonous aura

Unfulfilled I am. Wondrous dreams have no hope

of realization

Triumphant apathy -curse it- makes me feel

dead

Illusions are all I've got. Isn't destruction

change?

Only I can't bear to destroy, so I lie yet awake

and think of love and war-

just like Apollo's lament, front and back