Gentle contemplation,
    of the dark hands,
         sinking into the dark,
               cold land,
          hammering cold,
       real spikes into,
   the cool, cruel land.

In my peripherals,
     I could see the flashing
          of their sirens,
               of the fires on doorsteps,
           of idiocy secreting from
        the bus ride,
     express line to the
twin world

The haunting hollow lights,
       of the bell tower,
            as if floating,
                its wall invisible,
Just like those cursed, darkened hands,
Digging into the granite of
  the lands,
     bleak,
        accepting all freaks,
           of a certain caliber ,
They make up the nimrods,
       Roaming Wall,
           Visibly,
In the dimmest light,
     you can't see a spark,
          a depressing aspect,
Behind sad woolen eyes,
       transfixed on the betterment,
a raptured glance,
          the promising view,
The contrasting composition,
      that everything might.
          not turn out alright,
    and that's
preferable.