we're phantoms lingering through,
lone streets at twilight

lost and decieved of what's perceived
to be life in hindsight

oblivious and unrehearsed,
sprinting through thick mist at midnight

deafened under blankets of white noise,
searching for the obscure insight.

waiting for the sole conclusion,
a purpose for this enigmatic life

where ecstacy inevitably,
ends in melancholy
at most times.