The night owl , on its naked branch
Alone, alone, in the wooded grove
Burdened by solitude, forced to bear that lonesome yoke
The moon waxes and it wanes unseen, untouched, by the owls perch
Time? Who needs time in solitude?
Time ceases as joy ceases, time ceases as apathy begins
Time is measured not in a collection of random moments
But rather,
Time is measured in togetherness, experiences shared with other souls
Yet the owl, perched on its naked branch
Alone in that wooded grove
Knows not of his perpetual strife
Fore he has been and shall remain fettered
To the lonely stone walls of  solitude

But I? No , I, have the will to break the chains which feathered wings cannot
There is hope for me within these prison walls.
But the day will come when The Bastille will stand a pile of rubble,
A forsaken heirloom of lonely tyranny.
So it is written.