Insolent bastard children
Whose eyes have melted
Sit dreamily in the street
Staring at blank stone
As if in a mirror
They see empty stages
Weary fingers clutching broken strings
The street lights above them
Stark empty sockets
That no longer shine,
The music in all in their heads
Played by ghosts
A memory of what was once there
Creaking melodies
Whose echoes ring
But not of truth,
Filled with muddled reasoning
Repeating the same tired phrases
But never certain
When to come
To their end.
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