Fog of Mind
Upon returning from the vaulted tombs
Of our eternity, we come to find
The ticking clock has consecrated rooms
Erected through dissected fog of mind.
Presumptuous they say our search each day
To find a way to make mankind divine
When truth of flesh is absolute decay
And neuroleptic death is not benign.
Yet deep within the harbors of our heart,
Resides eternal hope we can achieve
An elevated knowledge far apart
From monolithic madness most believe.
Yet though we know our hope is in a rut
We'll fiddle till these little riddles shut.
Copyright © Tom Mcmurray | Year Posted 2011
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