Here we squat In reckless existence. Bringing friction Not where friction belongs, But to a chance: A shot into the waning light, A point unseen in the smoky darkness. We toil endlessly until The fever becomes us; Until we sift through the falsities And the half-truths- Until we become unafraid. However, To be unafraid is to be brash, And it is to be stubborn; To be at times, In often great naivety, Stupid. The product of our labor writhes. It twists in eternal chaos, While the foolish peer closer- Teaching the fire its power.