Broken, forgotten long ago,
He drags his ruined body here and there,
Wandering aimlessly
Under the watching trees.

He drags his ruined body here and there,
A screaming, wailing voice for anyone else
Under the watching trees…
Too afraid to tell his own story.

A screaming, wailing voice for anyone else
Standing in pale comparison to a past spun golden.
Too afraid to tell his own story,
Tears spill down his dirty cheeks.

Standing in pale comparison to a past spun golden,
He plucks his rusted metal strings.
Tears spill down his dirty cheeks;
He can’t face what he has become.

He plucks his rusted metal strings
With no one left to fine tune him.
He can’t face what he has become:
A corpse of what he used to be.

With no one left to fine tune him,
Trees block their ears to the screeching
Of a corpse of what he used to be
Before he was replaced, crushed, and abandoned.

Trees block their ears to the screeching,
An audience that can never understand his misery:
That before he was replaced, crushed, and abandoned,
The nations were his audience, and the world his stage.

An audience that can never understand the misery
Of a rotting orphan:
When the nations were his audience, and the world his stage,
They stole his singing heart from his chest.

A rotting orphan,
Lost and alone
Because they stole his singing heart from his chest,
He finds himself hollow from the inside out.

Lost and alone,
Wandering aimlessly,
He finds himself hollow from t