Thirsty thorns on the bank of an innocent stream,
The orb's light vied by its golden gleam,
The knight through his armour slit breathes 'fright is right',
The destitution's clown hopes that hope is at farthest of sight,
Dungeoned in the caverns of feigned revelry,
Vain vanquish against the inner self's rivalry,
The odyssey to release lease the inner consciousness counted away by the deuce's hourglass,
The self stricken by fate at industry's backlash,
The world man beholds charity's aura strewn along his tread,
Yet construes as the Reaper's death-conniving dread,
Yes the hour is such every wave of mirth snubs itself as obnox,
The spirits within not enlightened to the ghast that it dwells in a paradox....
