Hear us now, the thrice-scarred youth,
The downtrodden poor,
Those deemed uncouth.
Hear our cries that echo past dusk,
From rain-clogged gutters,
Up from our soul’s battered husks.
Hear our whispers upon the night air,
Sighing from rooftops,
Our trials laid bare.
Our gazes lifted to your ivory towers,
Hardened by sorrow,
We concrete-spawned flowers.
Fire-Side Tales 