Wasted, to the shadows of evening.
Harvesting this desolation;
the dull ache of twilight;
Nurturing the impossibilities inherent in dreams -
For what we know is but a reaction to
what we see.
Annotations in the margin of history;
Corrections and changes graffiti this cold
Existence devoid of
Diverted towards melancholy during these waking hours,
We witness intermittent moments of achievement -
Incidental in their nature and
Too few to be of any worth -
Hatch, then quietly disappear; hidden
the lines where nobody reads.
Going before the fall, the more
Noble among us persist in their attempts,
Out of misplaced
confidence, or mere ego, to
Resurrect the beauty of our
Nought be the outcome of these fantasies,
time no better spent be bought.
Graceless in their movements
Invitations of renewal are answered.
Taken out of context
Serial intruders, they are consequently
Incarcerated within a jail of ignorance.
Forgotten by everybody but memory,
of these servants to denial
Express but the doubt of fantasy.
Learning to overcome this, we try
To situate ourselves
behind the bars,
Housed within the confinement, in attempts to
Explain, if only to ourselves,
Not what we believe,
but merely ask.
Even if it is, beyond our own doubts,
Exaggerated to the limit of comprehension,
Designs upon this
Trap us into this state
Of being convinced, upon the slightest provocation,
To satisfy our human need for solution.
of the words from the great
Kings of ages past,
Except those we dislike, are followed to the letter;
Treated as gospel;
down through time to be
Exemplified in the actions of self-styled
In view of this treachery,
Search vainly for the light.