To the boy standing in the corner of
the room - eyes glazed with mournful
veils of red and green - I salute you.
This hall is filled with noise and squalor;
with tired faces and groaning youth;
but you stand slouched, amongst the brazen,
with eyes who've sadly glimpsed the truth
Those hands are cold and tried with failure;
that throat is harmed with voice so shrill;
that boy is shaken, real, so hollow;
a husk that's clearly lost it's will
A burden marred with tears of opal
does weigh the thoughts of man and child.
When light engulfs the void around him,
more civilized becomes the wild
The ground does shake, and air doth tremble,
as dust and dirt and wood and rain,
collapsing soft upon wounded,
pronounce, prolong, the rotting pain.
That life is specks of cindered leaflets
amongst a sea of black and mold;
that we are stone and brass colossi
with dreams of steam, and mass, and gold.