In the dark of the night a child screams,
a wisp of cloud drifts on.
Mothers and others with faces so pale,
tributes to days long gone.

Like fireflies-fazed-on bright summer days,
the melancholy murmur soothes.
Tortuous victims – like leaves on the wind.
Tell me no lies and I’ll tell you no truths.

Death seeks so often – a joy in itself;
aghast are the mindless and used.
All flutters wildly in a sea of false hope,
alone, embittered, confused.

Love has no meaning – it alters and falters;
the soon-to-be-gotten are had.
The mock-mirth so clouded in cheerful despair
is nothing but painted – so sad.

The daylight grows desperately dimmer –
sees dignity slipping away.
The setting sun flails, gasping for breath,
as it begs the color to stay.

Now the murmuring hums and soothes
whilst the artist’s rendering fades.
And sanity waves a white flag of surrender
while madness starts digging the grave.