A lot of us are broken,A lot of us leave in fearFor gratitude we hold no token,We run scared from things that never really appear.They twist the kinded soulLike gusts of wind from kindred spiritsResembling thorny pieces of charcoalThey fall with darkness and no merits.Never again will they ever regainThe great white-headed beauty they once heldOnly because they can not retainThe Power they had.. for now it is jailedIn their prison of hatred, doom and anxietySo when they smile at you, you feel they are deadYou cry in lonely revery for their striking dreadSwearing upon an ice-cold star that you will seek propriety