Every trumpet across the sky,

was a call for all to awaken,

but sleeping is a Rosy red,

that covers the scent of death,

and waking is now a sickness,

where anyone can lose their ‘breath.’

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Between the calm of falling,

and the grace of losing sight,

we have all become the mute,

clinging to the machine’s device.

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Fighting for this, supporting for that,

everyone is the punch line,

dancing feet and rag a tag hats,

juggling falls, hitting walls, forcing stalls.

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The meaning to the point was…?

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