There is only static
In the haze of their words
Like the front lines of old
They grow weathered, and die

To come alive in sleep
To bury each dawn in the ashes
An impossible, refrain to shake

Now a mist rolls along
Through life’s precious joys
Ensnaring the many
In sloth and well-wishes for death

There is only the static
Of words gone by
So wastefully exchanged
For a morsel of clout