The wind is still,

As the day holds its breath,

Amidst the grey-silver noon,

For naught is now left,

Of the golden season,

That fled only all too soon.

 

The pitch-cast suits,

Stalk the shadows of the day,

Overcast by their hearts,

But be that as it may,

 A method must be devised,

For the land to have a new, fresh start

 

With smoke ring halos,

Which encircle their oversized heads,

Expanding rapidly over time,

They grow with every half-truth, to us, they’ve fed,

And also with each insinuation,

And every painstakingly blatant lie

 

Soon the stinking shroud,

See expanding, how it covers everything,

The world even as a whole,

As few seem to logically think,

In the face of their cold countenance,

Subtle as sin, their form of mind control.