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Waiting, the burden of knowing

That time is a construct

The value of shapes draped in black

And sickness chasm, the acquisition

The torrid winds of broken minds

Peeled back trees like skin from vines

The blunted course of affect lost

And seeds of sorrow line our troughs

The soil in which we crawl and crave

Remind us of our future selves in graves

Forced to smile, demure, at our own master's fist

Crushed into silence by the magnitude of it

What god is hope in the face of no eyes

The boots to our face and the scares that breed lies

The apex of virtue eroded by loss demoted

Married to our traumas, our sleepless nightmare devoted