Empty streets, forsaken buildings,
Numbing sleet, deficient shielding,
Hollow grounds rumble,
Lonely and lost,
Pale, cold and humble,
A dull pain in his mind,
While his absent hands fumble.
Sitting alone in the midst of a broken city,
He deserves some care, some love and pity,
A fallacy – his sorry image might delude,
When observing this twisted being in solitude.
The failing architecture that surrounds him,
Tall and formerly grand,
Built with the ingenuity,
Of warmer hands.
Drops of sorrow fall on shattered road,
Unrestrained anguish, where rain once flowed.
The cooling liquid,
That runs from his eyes,
From a glazed window,
Into his lies.
He weeps, not for others’ loss,
Not for the millions that suffered,
He weeps not for the cost,
That his sick mind ushered.
His tears are for him,
And for his misfortune alone,
The world torn down,
For his own wicked throne.