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Written: June 3rd, 2025, For Contest By: Constance la France

Quote: "Age cannot wither it, nor custom stale Its infinite variety."
- William Shakespeare

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Warm sun butterscotch sand kisses the feet,
Salted air and layered hands settle into the seat.
 
Rather than striving for virtue, we are sinful,
We don't sing in the tone of a seraphic tinsel.

The sin-corrupted love of life fades within,
To recover what is lost forever, self-love spins.

Despite the onset of a passionate bond,
Losing all hope in a catastrophic respond.

The last rays of optimism are dwindling away,
 Withering into oblivion as the ropes sway.

A delusion needs to be held further too long,
As the waking world feels steadily wrong.

A decrepit fable may not seem so immense,
That it might be liable to incur the expense.

Ensuring my well-being and mental calm,
But the dream has to stop, despite the qualm.

There’s no escaping this nightmare,
Or the excruciating pain that it may spare.
 
At times, we behave completely insane,
Thinking no one is around to complain.

We might appear to sport a cool demeanor,
As still being trustworthy, or so it seems clearer.
   
We cross the street in the middle of the block, 
Reluctant to take the extra step or walk.

Many of us mislead when we speak, as is clear, 
Avoiding eye contact and looking into the sphere.

Erect a grand tower to replace the decayed,
We're all in the gutter, yet some see stars displayed.

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