The mental capacity to carry on with the daily grind of modern mayhem slowly ebbs from view.

A hardened psyche is in the throws of disarray , dilapidates like a forgotten building in an overgrown forest.

Slowly the bugs creep in, they're the first of many to colonize this quietening storm.

Each inhabitant feeding on a memory, on a loving thought of youth.

As trees swallow concrete, the chill of numb nonchalance spreads as a disease, each and every part of relevance becoming so much more irrelevant.

Those time consuming chores that dictated, lost forever, a blank stare replaces, eyes that see straight through to another side.

To hold on would be a punishment, to relinquish is to hold the key to the gates of purgatory.

You can hear the wheels slowly turn as they now etch the sound of silence, when they stop and the madness begins when shall the twist of fate turn to a tapered end.

It's winter and the birds have not flown south, a great freeze as fresh nature grows all around , sensory deception for muted perception.

Before too long it will be too late to disturb the disturbance and rationalize with faith, with the heart of certainty this meaningless shall cease, the way ahead will be forged by my hand, I will not fall by the wayside of incoherence,

I will not return

And I will not let my sanctuary burn