On the Valley of Worth

The doctor's will sit inside of

The glass walls. With wooden

Tables and hidden secrets, they

Hold their selves from knowing more

Than paid wages.

And deep outside sits pretty

Rings of smoke and lost souls

Upon swinging benches that still

Cry for wings and a hope for

Those written pages.

And in between, We feast upon

Our own minds of worthy wisdom

That neither side can truly grasp,

A sense of reality, but beads of sadness,

With a chance for changes...

Or a step towards madness.