Remnants

A splice of contradictions
And constantly ashamed of one's own happiness,
Ever seeking out new perdition,
A confident to crow's squawking madness.

With a coat threadbare
And a resolve poised like a harvest sickle,
Looking for tribute money to furnish passions
That inspire Harlot's capricious revels.

Where dreams depict only the remnants
Of the days sad doldrums,
Words cannot describe the utter deprivation,
These carnal needs buried in the silence of bitter symphonies