Felt footsteps follow me
The time for drifting is past and
Ninty-nine days are coming.
He cried into the night
changing his red for the black of silk and thread
He touched her bright dead eyes to his lips and fled
into the 99.
So he passes the days as though they are kilometers
and waves to those he sees in trudge
They whaft as he gallops
As the glory regresses forward 99 steps
for every backward progression.
Hoho he cries into the night
His passion torn, his anger never was
he is certain of his direction
only the night knows he is lost.
And then the days are gone.