With the constant fight for space,
stoned eyes, disgraced,
the bastions of the calm space is surely to befall.
Sad. Saddened.

With the never ending spite,
smoke laden walls, and
talks of hundred interested men,
that calm space is surely to get revoked.

How then the rust wont garden my fingers, my mind?
It plays house with my soul,
battling with the alcoves of my thought...