The sleeping sign.

In these times pure grey, a silent prayer helps me be fine,

That unsung in time i had, now what is left isn't much mine,

Count then down to zero, quietly so let death align,

With this life so meagerly lived, for the better of others and then mine,

My voice fades through to the end, each breath thus decline,

A sitting duck is still afloat, all above a different incline,

Intending apart in the same, a part pure liquid a part pure brine,

Thus flow of pure innocence, poorly pouring for the divine,

Speaking a little broken this while, clearing my throat pretending fine,

For once looking unattended, few lit candles sit at the dine,

Swollen seeds of pure despair, the moon seems desperate but to shine,

Pointing at it how i wonder, watching for the sleeping sign.