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We are humans to the nth power.
We surge even when souls are sour.
Just like the sacred of all exquisite gold &
much more valuable than mephistopheles could hold.
Think about the chalky moon in the sky,
And the breeze bewildering the silent crowds;
With no fury or mislead depression,
Leaving simple and decided impressions.
No matter how many years flow through the mighty gallows,
The hatred carved on the ego-walls will only trace out a few.
We gather, chivalrous if we trod past hauls;
It's how the novel should end and the obvious call.