On a baron saturday,
Formed to compliance,
A sour face stares back through a keyhole,
A default picture of a thing unknown,
What lies concocted behind the eyes,
Of a grimmace standing on the water and its current.
Doubt of the past trapped on a moment.
Compressed to a story,
Storyteller of tall tales,
Faces pressed up to window,
Hide behind a mist,
Conviction creeps up around you,
Running round fog ridden fields,
Aware of all mistakes.