The music of the spheres, deceptive,
Like all these hollow years
But only because its halloweth timbre
Is too subtle for our ears.
Even the ethreal glow of the moon
Cannot sanctify our rooms,
Because we are too busy
Indulging in wanton misery.
The cancer spreads its wings
Into our celluloid dreams,
And all we do is give plastic smiles
To while away our time.