basket-case dreams/angst

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.

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