The folding hour is upon us

The rust built up over years

Our eyes closed shut

With cement over my face

To turn away from the truth

To read the media’s take on nothing

To be presented with vanilla hell

Upon the folding hour

We are not doing well

For the news is now the fuse

Of a wet candle

Never to be lit again

And the passive nation

Lumbers on

While we all collapse into a

Depth my mind is unable to construct

As I begin to destruct