My muse has a peculiar imagination.

No idea what I was thinking when I wrote this. My thoughts are pretty unorganized.

My bearings of
existential determination
trickles down ordinary man's
patient blessings,
and truthfulness
is lost sans sorrow.
hurt bears the burden of the weeping masses.
let lie the dawn of tomorrow and
without question, prevail.

Tomorrow's muse left
to morrow in wallowing depth,
determination avast.
lie not with pride, but within
the Angel's playground as
the afternoon approaches
sordid quietude.