In the shadow of your wrong, I slay the token right.
Death to all who display the fight.
To the soil he falls, feet first,
although his agonies are not the worst.
As always, the martyrs are tragic;
but none can summon magic.
The lack of faith, the empty pit,
the candle wick that stays unlit,
certainly, by all, these things are hated.
But it is this by which they are placated.
The light is flashing, just like before,
but it is eyes that dull it evermore.
The siren screech rings the same,
yet it sours in its fame.
Everything, not new but sweet,
is trampled by the hopeful's feet.
Searching, they look for more,
seeking an unopened door.
They don't realize they've walked outside.
Nothing to find, nothing to hide.
Voices frozen, faces numb,
they announce the ancients dumb;
seeing sun in an empty sky,
a reflection in a cloudy eye.
Shuffling, they walk back home.
Blunt their hopes, wall their skies;
maybe the youngest cries.
For they had forgotten, in plain sight,
the beauty of the fight.