My mind,

Stained with the scent

Of fallout vapor,

Incineration of the ideal,

The perfection of the

Synapses misappropriated

With age of Metamorphosis

And the reality is

Idyllic in its disintegration.

We long for what can never be,

What waits in the ruin,

Beneath the fallen monuments

The salvation of a race

Might be had.