A Sonnet

This den of denial, a cave of night
Distorter of values, cross-eyed sight!
Thought wayward, wails in ear
Stone for heart, home to fear.

This our ground of reconnaissance
A field of night, devoid of innocence.
A virgin terrain of creative ills
A black hand all seeking fire stills.

A grim visage hails our call for aid
Our works pillaged by an easy raid.
We hammer ever at this stone
Insist by will, a new strength earn.

No crafted maps in this shadow terrain
Through this She leads our sole refrain.