As it was before, the sun fell onto mercy many times over my territory. I once buried bodies in the underbelly of the moon and climbed up to the coldest wind's peak. I shook the back handed deals with midnight to grease the palms that play the records. The knife's theme music sang coded and we shook the blood off our knuckles and drinks in the air. Fancy footwork spun the earth back to dawn and we retired to our caves. The sun would rise to cascade fiery death over the paradise I resurrected from burning blood. The sun would shine away my cohorts who's brightest hours only came in dark alleys. The sun cleared the streets and explained the surroundings for those who walk them straight. For a while everyone maintained balance and left the hours to their time. I am not sure when the scales tipped but I know currently they will never hold the same weight. Stepping a foot in grave or another in water will not make a person righteous just thirsty for death or in need of crutches. The shadey characters obeyed the rules of the yard and did not try to walk the fence but those accustomed to sun never had to be bright themselves. The stupid and jealous took the day to fuel the torches of their frightened mob. Not understanding the moon's principals they changed the clocks to kill the werewolfs. They stole the sound while we slept and never played the same songs. Now the stomping at my funeral will have to suffice last sonnet of cultures burned to the ground they once lay beneath. The mob will steal the clothes from my coffin and force wet feet into my shoes but they will never walk the same or ever keep my speed. They can call themselves wizards but never control the magic. They will force their schedule until their method is typical. They will lose all reason and forget tradition. I will die a relic and without last rites. Times change remains the excuse.