That mandatory whisper with a voice devoid of breath
Left speaking of tomorrow as if yesterday was death
And curling little fingers ’round the fallacies of truth
To cast a shadow of our age upon our youth

With minatory meaning and a sharpness in a glance
That says the gamble made was never really worth the chance
But beckoning statistics that would beg of our belief
As if a tonic for a wound of no relief

In predatory fashion with a hunger never full
And gifting every eye apparel made from heavy wool
Though telling us to see beyond the veil of new demand
Solidifying not a bit of what we planned

By auditory absence of a confirmation’s note
To grant a revelation from a cycle duly rote
With empty affirmations written on the page of could
Are we inscribing many stories ‘neath the never-ending tyranny of should