Sitting alone in a land of fiction

With the slightest and softest of quiet inflections

As the sky above bears a startling infection

Of clouds drawing hope from the dreams of the section

Yearning for greys and tears, while the strays

Biting at dusk squeeze gentle displays

From those who would beg and those who still pray

Despite the expressions of Gods who can’t stay

And leave us to flounder in bitter devices

Excited by silence and cowed by the prices

We pay into loathing and insufferable vice...