Dear Society,

Who are you to slash already tattered wings?
Broken bones on your finger, a most beautiful ring.
With a finger you point, as we solemnly pass,
Watching a rusty moon, hoping peace will come at last.
Taking refuge in our dreams beaten by reality’s wing,
Tragedy is the mother’s skirt to which we cling.
Do you see what you’ve done to heart, mind, and soul?
Pushing us down when we can taste our goals.
Blank expressions reflecting hurt and pain,
But with eyes wide open you turn away.
Filling our heads with colorful thoughts,
Burning out the stars we never caught.
And when it becomes too much to take,
You feed our desire to sleep and never wake.
A deranged silence casts over your head,
Once known as malignance creeping under our beds.
A vacancy sign grown dim and grey,
Rooms checked full of false hope and decay.
A desperate endeavor to wipe yourself clean,
All you’ve whispered, is all we’ve believed.
How did they feel, ashes blown from your hands?
Like tattered silk, soft and weightless in your grasp?
Did you watch them twist away, free only in the breeze?
Broken elegance, dancing amongst colorless leaves.
And when you hum the sick notes of your melody,
With eyes wide shut, your own fire will feed.
Thrashing and choking on your muffled screams,

Your throat slit by the shards of our dreams.