Siren sounds in my mind.

Four walls stare at me.
. . . Four worn-out glares form skulls.
. . .Four torn gowns gleam grey.
Four silence in four forlorn towns.
. . .Four weeping, wails walking at a litany pace.
. . .Moving ahead by moving backward.
Is the post-feet of saving grace.
. . . battle within the human race.
. . .Drags the innocent to life- paused yards.
Aging in the age of damage.
. . . A strange season that suppresses reason.
The Prince with a blurred sight of what is ahead.
. . .Has gold, but all that fade.
The Pauper, grey hair– saves him from treason.
Sheds helpless and anguished tears.
Aging in an age of doom.
. . . As if to shield the shame,
. . .Of all the bruises brought to humanity.
Wear masks sewn with gloom
. . .The bourgeois who took part in the game
. . .Because to them, that’s sanity
Are all but gonna die!