In Blooming Ruin

A boy who was proud - and wrong - and foolish

Was crushed by only one apathetic truth

There was not a hero to his story

A vessel to be used -  to be crushed - to be soothed

Now he would happily break his body

If purpose would deign to fall on his frame

But he can't remember the last time he's felt 

That breath in his ear or the spirit of shame

Is a man better in blooming ruin

or is prideful folly a gift for the son?

Now he's too humble to care for the difference

Not that it matters for all or for one.