Our past lives bewildered, our new winds deliver;
the stagnant quality of swamps will bother me
no longer; old adages put aside for alternative truths-
shaping myself in this time, now post-youth.
Who is to blame for the time lost?
Where does it go, except to the wind?
Like labelling dreams with high costs:
a season of life where only lies bring wins.
No pattern to this inkblot failure;
no sight to set the scopes upon.
Oh, watch for the heretic enabler;
and beware!
For the season of change has begun.
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