ITS A START

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.

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