As I move down the path
leaves crunching; walking slowly
the end does not come with wrath;
the beautiful lie will never be holy.

The end is nearing, every second
and I walk steadily, with solemnity;
Wordsworthian, solitary, reckoned
I've given all I knew an indemnity.

That being, I've left, they know not me
not anymore, blindfolded like all,
to the ugly truth within the
beautiful lie; a paper with scrawl

blows in the wind.