The primroses along any path smell of self deceit The lights along any abandoned street lack heat The fires in alleyways merely light worn faces The trees in a woodland gorve block all else on might see

Yet one must travel onward in the name of that progress Continuing to bewilder and beguile any offset rest For stagnance is death, and walking slow torture Which enlightens before the end of obsequious culture

The praise from any applause can deafen The smile of even the most beautiful can blind The taste of bittersweet nothing and everything numbs As such do the senses crumble within the mind

Stripped of these may we, just once, find peace