All who attempt to

Behold the wondrous works

Of the ancient wielders of pathos

Are to wait until eternal rest comes upon them

For you drag their dreams into the pit of eternal unrest.

As they see the bringer of death

In the eyes of

The one whom they once called friend,

They scurry

To create magnificence

Out of the shades of yin and yang

That invariably fall out of view.

Within the protected expanses of their cognitive refuge,

Their torturous screams cannot be heard,

For they wear a mask that displays confidence

And disguises their fear that is suppressed deep within.