Ninety-nine and less than fine,
Hour like the second strikes;
Half of eye and whole of tongue,
From the rag of bliss is wrung,
Drop by drop a seething flood
Marked by hopes and sealed by blood;
Morning beats in crimson red,
Breaking hearts of troubled bed.
See you now why the birds soar,
Knowing death knocks at our door?
Watch a way to fall so high,
Learn you well, plunge to the sky,
See you there the stars collide,
Passing where the darkness hides;
Fill a life with empty space,
Watch it run an endless race;
Batting eyes on sandy shore,
Beat, to bear, to shine no more.
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