It's 'tired' on the edge of dream;
A turned-milk frosty streetlight and a beacon of hope.
An immense pile of decaying technology echoing the faith of it's former life,
As promise turned to prison, freedom to farce.
'Travel on, young man' the voice spoke past me,
for I was too much of a young man to hear.
A lack of knowledge only less sad than the lack of strength to use it.
Too proud to prosper, too arrogant to ascend.
Speak now, for the audience is restless and soon they will disperse
Their absence a lonely reminder of your chance at redemption, at immortality.
Eternity has it's own agenda for you, and takes no suggestion
It's a choice that some find agonizing, and others never notice it was
Perhaps, in the end, silence speaks more than any word that ever could.