A Cloud of mists. Vapors without faces.
Cars make time over bridges, shuttling the
masses in and out of order.
Complaints rule within the swirl of thoughts.
The tongue wags tirelessly for some until it
turns black.
The engine of day corrupts all who pass over
the river. Seldom the sun shines everyday.
We rely on answers, regardless of their frailty.
Many expose their palms, submitting to the
appearance of veiled truth.
For many, the seriousness of day is lost while
attempting to finish where we started.
Roger Singer 