I sit here on the precipice with my feet dangling in the darkest abyss of time. On the fear-line I espy a pile of neatly stacked skulls ,of large circular eyes with the mountain air hissing through them.
You see other skulls had thoughts when their holes were eyes, that wished no brains in them. Wonder what the old man thought, when lying on a string cot, he saw the smile of death where the banyan met the sky.
The Morning is Just a Dream 