It's a tragedy of confusion,
With mingled remorse of sorts.
The doubtful few were weary,
Though soulful were their souls.

It's a barbaric camaraderie
The loved ones, unloved; far
Holy was their affinity,
Though, always from afar.

It's the ache of a new dawn,
Light piercing by heart's frost.
Blighted innocence, little was left
So much of yesteryear was lost !

It's a gentle trudge to unknown,
Handful do make it past noon,
Yearning to stop by, admire it all
Hath stopped so many too soon !

It's the night owl's sharp screech,
Attempting cordiality with the dark,
It was wise and could fathom,
What busy bees never could hark !

It was a beautiful endeavour of sorts,
Trudging of life, and it's miseries,
As nubile squires don the cloak
To try get over the long night !