Too far distracted by the patterns on the walls,
The apricot streams of light pour onto them through the blinds
Foreshadowing the night that is rushing towards.
The artistry from the ambient sounds floats above our ears;

Time would not stop for us,
Not even after our observed incapability
Our lack of consideration towards its unforgiving, unrelenting cautionary tale.
A product of an ironic displacement,
Once again we feel the pangs of misconception
Relentlessly tear apart all composure.

If only I would have believed–
Perhaps if you may have agreed,
On the pillars with which we could have rescued ourselves.
Would we then still be able to hear the music?
We beg of Apollo to share his gift
Long enough for us to regain our direction
And temporarily escape from the emptiness that entices the cynicism we breed.

Until then the tragedy remains,
And the deterioration of reason is quick to consume.
At last we are forced to face the blaring irony:
Just how much of ourselves are we willing to sacrifice
In the desperate attempt to grasp onto the happiness we once knew?