The day comes around again; again I’m a child staring at a TV; again, I don’t understand. A complete abandonment to self-hatred, like an abscessed wound growing where the towers fell. I have no great love for New York—I’ve been there once and didn’t much care for it—but I know that people do love it. Where are they?
Here looming shadows, cast by ghosts,
those twins once standing tall,
upon the mumbling, foreign hosts
as silent sorrow fall.
The loveless suitors come to grasp
a fruit they will not sow.
Sweet Liberty, her neck to clasp,
by iconoclastic foe.
The chains, once broken, they shall mend,
who women's faces shroud;
Will not her green face too offend,
this ever-growing crowd?
No towers stand but they were stood,
nor fall but for the same.
Can't you rebuild, stand for the good?
To stay down's the true shame.
Tale Told 