In Fracture.

What verdant sorrows lie in this tangled web we weave?
Four and six pence plenty more than thirty silvers to give
Trusting not in the morrow but in the surety of the day
Overgrown gifts ungiven in silent protest of silent cause
The prophet’s speech on deafened ears falsely accusing still
Such sanctity to find only in such lessened sanity
Near invisible to eye naked in the cascade from the skies
What wrath may bring to emptiness as dusk swallows the light?
Greener pastures sown with chaff swiftly carried
Curious dialectic ever returning
Categorical conclusion ever so evading
What dreams may pass in the wide awakeness of day?
Swiftly and slowly passing pausing not to exhale
Comfort found in what little solace of misery familiar