Whitney

Round a futile yard, we try to hide our fears, ships gone on the rocks, light a path to Mars, satellites hang in the atmosphere, by multitudinous stars, these miracles of endless parts, don’t shift our tears, shaken answers for a start, no need to look far, everything we know is here, hell heaped on a handcart, junk is for no marks, that picture is clear, sentence pronounced by some old nark, how it broke our hearts, to see such loss smeared, like sunshine on prison bars, your time coming near.