---

Enter the woods

where those who trek

remain privy to its dangers

where lamentations and weeping

echo behind dying thickets

beholding at last a wilted clearing

Come hither

The flowers wither

in this garden of delight

as doves take flight in silence and haste

Set your gaze upon the flock

bearing weighted clock hands

as the sands of the hourglass

rush past in a frenzied storm

Taking the form of a whirlwind.

So strike the flint and turn away

For with the first day came light

Indeed a sight unfit for the eyes of Man.

Delusions of grandeur

and self importance

fester in the minds

of those who do nothing

but grow old and die.

What will it take for their souls to return?

A simple beckoning or desparate plea?

The projected shadows of the fragmented collective

coalesce into the very pit

down which they gleefully plunge.

What is there left to gain?

Are we stranded with our own free will?

If so, shall we create a masterwork for the ages-

continuing on with the passion of great artists and craftsmen of past?

Etch in stone a diatribe against the nihil

and lay claim to an epoch of meaning regained