Time is clicking constantly backwards to the beginning,
The screen on the set flicking through the flicks repeating.
What time don't matter or know, this time that screen won't show.
He shuts his eyes, they open three minutes ago.
The high kings, all together,
They rarely see him, if ever.
They coulda' had the world,
The tragedy that would be.
That time, now he'll remember,
Nothing, leaves space for the sloth to see.
He wants to take over, fine.
To control, to rule, to conquer, fine.
He has to leave the rest behind.
Endless binges, frozen faces, dropout centres, writing ceases,
These are his seasons.
He forgets his quest, and the sirens drive him to drink,
Succumbs to the beast inside, and sinks.