We all tell ourselves there's no reason to treat charades like a fools trade
building bridges with wooden hands
Should be childs play
But instead
We dig moats with no purpose other then to decorate our isolation
pasting fragments of yesterday onto the walls
So why is it any surprise that weve all grown blind
If all we see is distorted by what has been
rather than what could be
The linings of our clouds are without appraisal
Yet we mire ourselves with price
Over value