These Times
All the nights in shining armor
have turned to rust,
turned to dust,
beneath the crumbled sidewalks
we stumble upon.
The tin man too has cracked,
somewhere between
lost dreams and reality.
The princes have all died,
as naïve princesses
still lie in wait,
facing the sun each morning,
no longer as hope,
but as a ball of Satan’s fire,
burning through their porcelain skin.
And the world turns slowly,
a little closer to the sun
with each revolution,
as we, one by one,
crack,
turn to rust,
turn to dust,
burn out and die,
our deaths in these times,
now just another day
simply devoid of meaning.
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