It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime

It Is Night, And It Is Vanity, And Age Blackens The Heart Of Adam. Fear, The Yellow Chirper, Beaks Its Cage.

In The End, There Is No End.

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot