If the fog would ever lift
From this everyday abyss
Would there be a thing to see
Worthy of our fantasy?
Or would there be a wasteland
Beat, neglected, and bereft
Could it be a pile of ash
Is all that we have left
As the world is turning slower
And the Sun is getting lower
Visibility decreases
As the fog begins to glower
Maybe we are better off
Not knowing what we’ve done
While the world is dying slow
We still can have our fun
A Life in Poems 