I have a fascination for broken things.
Things that are easy to bend,
And hard to mend,
Always resorts to pretend,
Of being happy and gay,
Of feeling jolly in their darkest dismay.
I see their hearts,
Flapping like butterfly wings.
Broken by the smallest drop of rain,
Fear clotting in their venomous vein.
And all through this peril,
And all through this pain,
Petty try for a wry smile,
Between the sparkling frame.
What a sight-
What a pretty sight-
For a man like me,
For a man obsessed with silence and fame.
A man who knows who he is,
For all its worth-
He is but one of them.