A million knives,
A thousand hearts,
Conducted by a mass choir,
Of distance between truth and time.
Imbued by the shadow cast on a winter lake.
An eerie silence sung by the mirthless,
Travelling in lies.
That poet praising truth,
Discontented but accepting,
The beauty in an age.
A witness of subsiding satiety.
Acknowledging the absence of freedom,
Like a truant child,
In hope and fear.
A shy love, preaching of the souls lust,
A woe and a reward.