In this misty fog of yore,
To this life been given sore.
Nevermore in one’s own waking,
Tired eyes for the worlds own taking.
Vindictive numbers of judicial pasts,
Moving forward from what never lasts.
This word mistaking of points of view,
Can’t change another’s outlook.
Yet what can one do?
So bask in radiance of what you can,
For the hour of the end comes at everyones hand.
No life immeasurable when at small it stands,
When in this basking glow of forsaking.
Will you stand clear from the fog?
Or by its mist, be taken?