A cross stitch of our time.

When all is quiet, and life cherished
has retreated from this storm

Of words that barricade in reason,
and deform that critic of fallacy, the soul

When once again, a hope can spring
into the step, and seed the words

That flow from you and I

And the province of human need,
leaves the provenance of lies

Behind us, and reason comes like breathing
not it's facsimile, the sigh

For now more than hawk-like,
dark and palpable beats of rookish wing

That breathe of things despised, where
all hope is dispensed as commodity

By robber barons ripe, picking the fruit
of labour in their perpetual delight

And the hardened rain that falls so softly now,
is the same that lands on all

Its saturation adheres and drenches
uniform, all people entrenched in thought the same

They turn their weary ears to the ceaseless, vested
blowing source of air

And I sense, by lamplight mist
a giant looming, large and conniving

Consuming all that freedom ever brought.