My mind,
Stained with the scent
Of fallout vapor,
Incineration of the ideal,
The perfection of the
Synapses misappropriated
With age of Metamorphosis
And the reality is
Idyllic in its disintegration.
We long for what can never be,
What waits in the ruin,
Beneath the fallen monuments
The salvation of a race
Might be had.