We reap
The tidy sum of consciousness
Drinking in, the low hum of its softened morn

A freshly brewed misty haze
Swallows, the whole of our feeble existence
Beaming, until silently conjured
By the somber quicksand of an eager nightfall

The knowing few
Sprawl open with trembling vigor
Proud harlots feasting, upon the scraps of fleeting wonder

The knowing few writhe
In sensory splendor
Relishing in each stream and bead of their toil
They are clasped within each torrent of ecstasy
Wildly lashing, behind each drunken quiver

We are
Enslaved by a tyrant of bliss
A chief of treachery
And cunning torment

And still
We must take up these broken tributes
Favoring them sinfully
Forever lost
Within the heart, of tragedy and jubilation