yet

fall away from wobbling heads, raise a glass to this or that, falling far from soulless dead, it stinks, what all our days begat, as if it ever mattered much, spirit's weight upon the air, something rare we could not touch, without some proof to know it's there, longing lingered at the line, still scraping at the words, sentiments that we defy, ideas fly like birds, far from lands once fraught with form, so enlightened at the start, compulsion seeming sickening norm, to rip the world apart, then glance along continuum, we reap just what we sow, tearing at e pluribus unum, the devil we don't know... yet