In ruins we lie desolate
Weathered by days of strife
Burdens borne and shoulders worn
We are the defeated in life.
Of raw deals and broken schemes
Are our tales to tell
But who will listen I wonder
To aught but our death knells?
Even those I fear shall pass unnoticed
So abandoned and forgotten are we
Nonetheless our funerals will be tended to
By hyenas and vultures only too willing to keep company.
We have no heroes unfallen
Our stories are tarnished with pain of loss
Chronicling in embittered tomes
Our dreams trampled, our misery umembossed.
Wretched, pathetic, wallowing in filth
We are the vagabonds you scorn
Worry not if you feel loath to touch us
For we too rue the day our kind was born.
Why do we not take our own lives I wonder?
Or why do you permit us to survive for that matter?
The latter I think is easily answered
For if we didn't exist then would you be victors?
As for the former I can only surmise
That to some last inkling of hope we cling
That the future will bring with it happier tidings
Or at the least, beautiful angels with wings.
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