Is there a gift so true as to be real,
When there is much to see but not to feel?
Trust, a dulled sword cutting little and less
Idols become gods while imps bow and caress.

Meaning nought for now though much for the ‘morrow
Boding well for none and for all sorrow.
The daggers of truth all ’round but meaningless
And wonder we must: who is deceiving us?

Who built this leaky ship with gilded gangplank?
Who cast us forth on seas murky and dank?
Who was our voice, half captain half siren?
Who but us made this sinking boat to cry in?

Though often it seems there is none to take
A choice always is there for us to make.
Dancing ever on frayed tightrope
With us the devil … and us the hope.