These solemn streets are plagued by sickly moons.
These ragged junkies and winos are turning blue
In unforgiving, wanton, wintry nights.
There is not even a glimmer of light
To cling to, or guide one, towards new dawns.
O this modern world is torpid and torn!
I often wish my prayers could break the sky
Into pieces so grace and mercy, like
Tears, would pour down through the cracks,
And rectify what crude consciences lack.