Oh, woeful watcher of my soul,

who guards my pitiful countenance 

as an unadulterated consul

that bears smoldering travail

and pursues my unholy grail;

silencing murderous voices that

reverberate dissonance.

Oh, weary watcher of my soul,

who gathers tattered strips of humanity

from which now rises an ashen ghoul

with brutality as its maker

and shameless banality as its framer;

utters nothing but lies and

possesses nothing but vanity.

Oh, prudent watcher of my soul,

who stands wakeful at the break of dawn

stares into the abyss - the bottomless hole

the consul she is, the consul she’ll stay

vicar of the ghoul, once ashen now gray;

chasing an omitted purpose

that was long forgone.