We are savage and we are cruel And we know well what we do. The imprints of sycophants Echoes in blood red rooms. The certainty of colour Washed white and hung too soon. A memory of light, A bloom of deja vu. Remembrance forgotten Rewritten and then renewed.
Still we know not what we do.
The past is a sombre portrait, Watercolour hung askew. Dust and skin belie the truth Stroke sure yet misconstrued. In the maelstrom of intent Will is broken before it is bent. A promise spoken, never meant.