It’s the tiny whispers, in a nightmarish vision.

It’s a little blundering, of a truth all overwhelmed. 

In the euphemism, of a consolation, we writhe along a painful basin;

Full of atrocities, full of the unknown.

Blithering ov’r the brink of a tumultuous breakdown, on a solitary and eroded path. 

To sway by the creek, to make way for the skidding ego, searching for blasphemy, in pages unfound. 

Babbling profanities, all mumbled down to nothing, It’s sickening, the barbarity, all to call oneself witty.