Look at the rows of anguished faces, perfected in years of practice,
How I Pity those who shed a tear, for the things others lost.

It seems the World does not flame with a seething luster,
nor does it shiver in the bite of icy winds,
How we must be cruel or illusioned in its terrifying neutrality

Quickly, these skilled entertainers slip into a stranger’s skin
They conjure a dramatic performance to fool the Fools, to fool themselves.

Oh How those faces mock me! Once Strong, the Feathers of Maat lie jagged and broken,
And apathetic Heracles looks upon unlucky Atlas with a callous.
Meanwhile, each wretched tear and troubled look laughs quietly to itself.

Why concern yourself with one of the masses?
Let him cry out to the deaf crowd, let him yearn to catch their avoiding gaze
Only to be received by a handful of distressed looks.

But when the dark tides close in on You,
lapping hungrily at your feet,
You too will see the anguished faces,
Shaking their distracted heads as you drown.