Our march in time seems so sublime, yet,
we cannot savor life’s forward climb.

in the darkest corner of any forlorn sight
there lives a demon in the long lost night.

roaming within the hollows of endless fears,
it whispers shades of discontent so we can hear.

we are trapped in our make-believe spaces.
absorbing wilted sighs from faraway places,

and spare the thoughts of hearts left crying,
into the dark our stories will always hide.

our march in time has becomes so tasteful,
as only we can feast on something so wasteful.