So quiet the night. Seems just. Though truly I know of injustice more sincere. I’ll linger a bit, and perhaps take heed of the hanging branches that scold the gloom of this forest nocturn. The shadow willows’ denial of hollow laughter, echos of paths to farthest meadows that gleam in purity’s milk.
Of dandelions, the orphans of the despondent, the ridiculed beauties of lost charm. Where to, merry gentlemen? Where to? On the steed of justice ride the henchmen of naivety’s grave. They plunder, against veracity, once again to remain the despots’ night crawelers. Venomous. Rhapsodic. Virtuous. Romantic. Is it the minute or the hour? Fear is transparent optimism. Pain is denial. Justice is neither.- Sinz