When the pendulum peals noon

And the chorister goes home

When the curtains crash down

Once a crowd becomes too alone

Who but lusts for more rapt attention

Than the eyes of the inner betrayed

Silver-tongued silver-plated portrait of sin

From sleepless citadels condescend

Of rapture, judgement, discourse in dreams

The end of all things remains to be seen

Yet in the end every soul fears to face

A face of ash formed in its own disgrace