The line is blurred
   There's fog and mist
Of all the hopes
   That could exist.
Focus shifts
   The eyes lie
Palms clammy
   The world about to die.
The strum of the sun
   I wear the fool's attire
Tricked by my hand,
   A jest, a satire.
The final laugh,
   The strew of cash,
I am hollow
   Nothing left but ash.