Lost souls of friends live on within our heads,
No feeling left, just dreams we lock away.
And us? We’re puppets dancing, hope and dread,
While songs of bloodshed drag us on each day.
You hum your hymns of battle, tense and hot;
I feed on feast’s-end groans and lovers’ moans
Amidst the crumbling titans you have wrought
In axioms of anarchy unknown.
There’s no need now to purge your thoughts of lust,
Or loathe the love that else might make us real.
Your effervescent, searing sign of trust
Turned malcontented mark of what you feel.
Our masks reveal our need to be divine,
But with hope lost, the world mocks our design.