our chances are blown, we've been overthrown,
by the crippled man in black—
he stands in a corner
in the fleeting midst of disorder
his hair damp and speckled with grey.
the life his eyes lack
are made up with bloody sacks
that lie trembling at his feet—
the mouths of our youth,
"handy for ignoring blatant truth!"
and the eyes of his old,
"they're goners, lost souls!"
and the brains of our ancestors,
"just for extra measure!"
forever blinded, we've been
eternally silenced
and our dreams, they lack defiance
oh, what happened to the defiance?
now our fragile frames hide behind
fickle myths of beauty and kind
all because we think it's sort of sad, and that's just that—
even though the crippled man claims it ain't half bad—
he's got burns and scars and they bleed all day,
he'd quietly say,
but we can't hear him.
we never do.
what, is he a collector of sympathies?
or another vague, i-refuse-to-know simile?
perhaps, the epitome
of a different bigotry?
we don't know.
he has our minds.
