Wastelands Ruled by Ruined Kings
Jute Gyte
A plague of nostalgia for a fictive past
Not merely dead, never born
Is the most desperate form of escapism
Accident of birth, the pride of the insipid
Blood still runs, rose-tinted
Spilling on the red rock
In starvation and waste
In fanfares
And marches
And broad arching melody
Wastelands ruled by ruined kings
Curses never lifted