Are there any why’s left?

Against this foreign escape.

To find is not to know, but rather solidify.

We cannot know if the origin is lost, or if the source remains anonymous.

These things are naught but phantom’s embrace, the slipping of sanity… the fall from disgrace.

Do we perhaps accept our reality’s illusion, or do we gather the dice and prepare to roll?

Turn to the gambler within and ask: Shall we play our hand?

No not if we shall fall, but rather when.

We all fall… eventually.

Ensnared by grandeurs designed, we shade our glasses in mind-numbing rose; sugar laced poison, the latest fad.

There is nothing left to make sense of this place, no one will notice a little twist of kindness.

No, faux façades are all we know. Trained to see by generational gall, and shadows to bleed in mute reprieve.

Catch the spindle, that dangerous thread unraveling, fear the burn and torturous return of emboldened sneers. We are bred not to stand out, those who do face the shun and shame.

So, perhaps we stand in line for the next circumstance, the next stamp of the machine. That ever grinding machine, with filthy gogs and biting oil, jerks humanity ever onward.

It is innocence

It is individuality

It is our essence

That became exinct, lost to the dust of time.