The world is meaningless - we search for meaning,
For something to transcend the pain and last.
The road is bumpy, treacherous, yet scenic,
We fancy stars - but then return to dust.
Thus every generation flirts with evil,
It toys with goodness, revels in mistakes.
A winterstorm descends on shriveled leaves, and
The one who sees too much burns at the stake.
The truth would make a rather cold bedfellow,
Lies squeal like willing wenches, hold you tight.
I'm whispering - my voice is hoarse from yelling -
And choosing my eternal frozen night.