To the enlightened,
Darkness.
Incessant, restless tendrils that only tear away,
In dreams of parchment and ink, they bleed,
Thus to be born in vicious silver-grey,
Such a warning, to fail to heed.
Trifling, the words that carry on in vain.
As such it seems, foggy bursts of phonetic noise.
Unlikely, it seems, that one could see the pain,
With every stream, of words and battered poise.
Nothing is wrong.
Nothing is wrong.
I am happy.
I am happy.
Nothing is wrong.
