Wasted, to the shadows of evening. Harvesting this desolation; Encouraging
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
inspiration. 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 In between
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 Ancestral simplicities. Nought be the outcome of these fantasies, Though
time no better spent be bought. Graceless in their movements Invitations of renewal are answered. Taken out of context
by Serial intruders, they are consequently Incarcerated within a jail of ignorance. Forgotten by everybody but memory, Each
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
truth Trap us into this state Of being convinced, upon the slightest provocation, To satisfy our human need for solution. All
of the words from the great Kings of ages past, Except those we dislike, are followed to the letter; Treated as gospel; Handed
down through time to be Exemplified in the actions of self-styled Philanthropic leaders. In view of this treachery, Several
souls Search vainly for the light.
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