There stands a man unknown,
Proud that he has been reborn.
Unaware that amidst the ruins,
Survivors regard him with scorn.
In this moment he is complete,
Yet the hand he holds is a myth.
Though they both decided to leap,
He alone will fall from the cliff.
Even the truth he knows is lost,
He desperately clings to a dream.
Yet his subconscious surely knows,
None of this is truly as it seems.
He invoked the word of God,
In a quest to justify debauchery.
Though the audience voted against,
We know that this is not democracy.
Shadows sit here holding hands,
Around a wreath of fallen stars.
To watch him rend himself asunder,
Burying the pain in booze and cigars.
He is a man without any past,
For he has rewritten his story.
Yet those who remain are fickle,
Ever trying to lead him from glory.
Though I could reach out,
He would recoil from my touch.
For he believes this is a battle,
Yet nobody stands to gain very much.