This is a poem I wrote a long time ago. Still can't write poetry like that anymore. . .
The mist flows through the valley; ash pours among our shores, from sky came sleet, cold and wet, our hearts gone dry; save our love of greed. In an age of mayhem, who is to speak, when we are all wrong? In truth, we all lie, and what we think is right is most certainly false. So we, a people in despair, stick not together, but tear ourselves apart.