Moon-white lilies on the surface of disturbed dreams
Floating, suspended, on the edge of consciousness.
A wavering hope, a transient faith in which we invest
But they are merely flowers fed by mercurial streams

They know not of substantiality, only unadulterated beauty
They are hapless immortals, clinging to mortal ills
They cover what we wish not to see with their purity
Masking all our pains and sorrows in something more soothing

But past their spring-green stems and snow-pale petals
Are the coursing currents that we wish to never see-
Black with sin and darkened by ignorance which we fear-
Is the discharge from the prolific sores on our mettles

A discourse of doubt guides us gently in our life
And it is from our fears that these hopes derive