a back pocket of guileless hope
reality wobbles a worn tightrope
the Deafening absurdity of it all
marking the sorrow of our great fall

headlines stab where silence grew
the jesters preach while mourners rue
we tiptoe through the ash and spin
a dance of endings dressed as sin

they lit the match with practiced grace
then told the world lies to save their face
but we, the watchers, cracked and wept
and told the stories they secretly kept