I write loose lines in cryptic notes for words hence lost too soon on lips. Harken thus my silent voice through print and pen; verbose ad verbatim. What be the measure of a man? His silent struggle, unsaid yet deafening, through words unspoken behind wax masks which melt with the flicker of his tongue? Or is it the boisterous facade and the ashen humour amidst cold cares despite solemn disposition? Alas, I am but both yet no less than a rhetorical entity against the calamitous catastrophe- the harsh cacophony of careless whispers. With the weight of worlds weathering down, overslung on downcast wings I seek the world through visions made in slumber and dreams cast with open eyes. Yet is it too far to hope for a better day burnished from demons passed or the fair maiden behind gated walls moored on drifting clouds? Yes, poignant hope, but hope nonetheless lest hope jests in pittance of a better day for the yearning fool as mere dreams forever on the horizon.