The fireflies sit atop their throne rooms
And whisper malicious, secret lies.
The rabble behind me cannot help but tug
At the heart strings; what would I give to be them?

To be simple, to be plain. To not think
Ingenious, coherent, well-structured thoughts?
I am cursed to wander a witless wasteland, wraiths
Picking away at me with wine and why-not's.

My saviour sits somewhere amongst the blackness,
Pondering herself and her oncoming white Knight.
She knows not what salvation means, only that it contains
An escape from the hell surrounding her that is home.

I mourn for her, because I know she bleeds ignorance.
She knows not that I seek for her, cutting down the hallowed
Halls of my past and bringing down the hammer on those that
Would seek to taint my most luminous future.

One day, I will spot her across the sidewalk,
Glancing longingly at the breadcrumbs left for the pigeons.
Not because she is hungry, but because they remind her
Of her dreams, and her nightmares.