Gaze Upon the Glassing Beam

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Sitting upon shelves of glass, over by the sea.
Thinking of what might have been, if the skies were free.
Shackled under ash and dust, stretching shore to shore,
Blues will never bloom again—sun will shine no more.
Sitting upon shelves of glass, over by the sea.
Thinking of what might have been, if he were truly free;
The land has long been sundered, gaping wounds still crack.
Soon the winds will pick up shards, and he’ll go traipsing back.
He stands up from the shelves of glass, over by the sea.
Not among the victims, and never truly free.