Window Seat to Ruin

Dim are these days of our gilded jails 

Of pallid, petty kings in plastic 

Castles, carving deeper moats and crafting 

Walls to watch the wintering of the world 

From the comfort of a constant paycheck 

The nation’s heart is now a heap 

Of ashes long past hope to light 

Yet failing men with fallow minds 

Poke the coals to coax out hate 

In want of kindling a wanton hope 

Dark indeed are these undead days 

Unlit except by listless dreams 

Of a nation with no notion yet 

That fortunes light no fires, nor 

Stop the sweat beads of the brow 

The World Wide Web is a red-light district 

Boys boast about who lies best 

Fencing knock-off pride and discount fear, as girls 

Sell their flesh to pay for food 

And the icecaps melt into a sea of ads 

Doomed are these days of self-idolation, 

Where every soul seeks to build a shrine 

To their own name, to a shapeless number 

Playing god in pixel halls 

Selling paradise while heaven falls