the eleventh hour is over
dan spector
let us not now sit here
or wait for another conclusion
the eleventh hour is over
dead are the arrivals
the disciples of a brand new hour
with the big hand passing on
towards another hour to be set 
let us count off this anticipation
the departure of our sensual pleasures
more pain
and suffering to be endured
the bullwhip cracks at the set
the setting of a brand new dawn
from those warm summer settings 
to our new winter's chill
the countdown refuses to lift
a recoil set for another reaction
the rubber masks being uplifted
put on for another midnight ceremony
with the burning candles lay
with wax and bitter tears
to a festival feast full of desires
 the walls around us
enclosed with the passage of last rights
being served and justified
as the final verdict from our peers 
innocence being burned with the essence
the incense of final judgment
coming closer and often near
with the eleventh hour over
the big hand passes its mark 
the little hand catching our fall
the failed teachings of reason
surrendering to those sentimental devotions
the scythe drawing closely near
by our sides
and forever be entombed
midnight makes its imminent arrival

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