Cold winds blow o’er the north,
shadows of the day dying
into humid night, thoughts wander
Conscience and morale asunder.
‘Tis but a sad comedy I see
in this facade we call reality
overstated set of solutions,
go through the same motions.
Countless words yet finite action
The fabric of sense often misspelt.
Perhaps one does not see
when he’s busy trying to flee.
Time has blissfully numbed all fright
still pious to be bestowed by Him
“Courage to escape death’s hook,
To turn this page, not close the book.”
Trespass, please. 