but the battle rages in that blue orb,
fists descend on the weak and helpless,
ethereal possessions switch hands meekly,
I peek into the venal cities manufacturing pain,
their eternal cupidity chokes them to the ground,
wharfs burn and so do dreams of that endless sky,
some hide and listen for the warble of the poets speaking of renewal,
propitious is our clinging for peace,
so I lift myself from my celestial throne
and garnish the thousand-year pen,
proliferate the energy of the stars to those who will it,
burning in the souls like Prometheus's flame,
I'll float and croon to perhaps swoon the rage to slumber,
allowing the world to finally rest.
