Down into the Streets
Placed upon a stone,
the child weeps of hunger.
Twilight sorrow fills his spirit,
a family lost long ago.
Many days have sung of the hand of plenty,
shivering without burden of a life misled.
Empty thoughts that prey on this fragile heart,
eyes of brownstone that harbors loathing.
Smile that has faded away like hope in a fallen angel.
Such sorrowful penance is this,
a child born to the streets.
Turning into a mid-servant for a cheap meal,
sitting alone in an hour’s shadow.
Unresponsive to charitable emotions,
the last tear died on his cheek.
Blind is the world to these voices in the wild,
mutation of innocence into bundles of steel like demons.
Yet the rain was tasted in the shepherd’s blood that was sacrificed to man.
The darkness becomes our own voice,
truly, are we mad.
A man lives in all cities,
naturally bred of mourning silk.
Stillness of actions has sealed the fate,
grave danger upon our heads.
Slumber underneath this chill,
winter awaits our earthly tombs.
Ever calling out to the souls,
broken faith is our answer.
Walking into these waters,
to drown ourselves in the filth,
we call humanity.
