Like a spiral it spins forever.
We never quite know where it ends.
It dances with shame, it's painted with hope.
It toys with humanity, never making ammends.
Like a dragon it breaths down our backs
as we stand on the shore of this age.
Beyond the horizen, the gold must be won,
while we trample on truth with sunbeams of rage.
So when will we learn to wade through grey
On the pages of novels where our end never rhymes?
When will wealth mean feet in warm sand
running though castles of angel designs?