And flowers doth wilt denying youthful innocence,
Transcending into a state of aged wisdom and prudence,
Isolating the leaning, decaying life devoid of meaning
As lonesome lovers, tangled vines, glare at vivacity, fiending,
With followers fast-fleeting, forging ahead leaving behind nuisance.
And being no great man with no great tale to tell,
I can only offer what unravels, what shadows cast, from where I dwell.
Only eyes amongst a sea of mouths, believing solely in the puppet-master Death,
For He reaps the fruit, ripe or nay, pruning Society with ghosts of cold breath
Amid vague traces of shade which sparsely lays betwixt a glass heaven & a living hell.