It wasn’t much, the leaves touching air
Without a King behind,
A grievous hint of autumn coming on
As if we could go back
To where we were born
Either/or I wrote
Journaling on the bus
Either/or I am darkness descending
Or giving way
So morning is clear
Today, just a man
Walking with shadows in him
And no one knows how it will be
Or if our five senses
Will ever rise
Planet of the Blind 