Hope is Still Fading for Facades and the Rest of Our Days

The morning sun rises over the sleepy town North of the city away from the hurry. They all leave to be paid and played, a parade to the city to fight, gripe and spite. In a line, lost in time, tumbling over their minds, withdrawing from television, uptight yet polite. "Oh how nice it is in the Summer, though the world will soon be ending." "We must preserve this great nation for our children you see, because after we leave there must be no dope smoking or disease." You hear it softly, slowly, subliminally, a whisper in your ear, until your future fades and you are caught in the leer of fear.