Fire of thought is smoking at the serried edges of sanity,
twinned with madness in dual, Janus floating shadows,
deliquescent coiling as the oars of hope firmly bend still water;
the scenery of consciousness bright coloured by depravity.
Faithless Self blows mists across hope's sullen, stinking ponds,
fuels that loud cascade of potential and endless possibility,
listens for the trumpet of delusion's harsh and bitter melody;
life's gramophone still turning, blaring on and on and on.