The waiving web of arguments has been strung up near the door,

Pacifists in fisticuffs amounting only to a bore,

Clumsily, they wrap themselves in cloth only they can see,

For to conform to others, they never could be free,

 And reason escapes all, as to what this is truly for.

 

Clinging to the clime of an abashed autumn, so absurd,

The dreamers dip in nightmares wrestled from a word,

Never knowing what they crave, in dementia, in the dusk,

At the carcass of their desires, they skittishly skin its husk,

Left with tattered shreds, confused as to what they preferred

 

Wherein, there’s a cinema that secretes images bold and false,

Of good-minded men as crazy clowns in a warped waltz,

And women of high moral stature as deluded or naive,

To which collective societies, while ghouls, have to grieve,

As what they claim to truly treasure, is sacrificed for all else

 

Onlookers pick off their senses with the popcorn salted in insanity,

And stoicism stylishly wanders in, in the guise of a form of gallantry,

And trying to stay above the ice, all drown themselves in their drinks,

For the tragic death is beautiful, is all that they can think,

So they bring themselves to stew in the fluids of their vanity