Men of Glass
You’ll find them in every town
Usually too late
Once they’ve consumed themselves
Chasing a hunger
Fed only by the lie
That the hunger was the best thing about themselves
Lacking interiority, their emptiness takes to the streets
Holding themselves together with masks worn like tourniquets
Strangling their fear
A fear further overcome with the call to arms
Of nationhood, victimhood and blood
Always it comes down to blood
The history of blood
The purity of blood
The spilling of blood
When finally you’ve got the better of them
You find their blood has grown so thick
It has congealed into a single mass
The only thing about them
That was still solid
In the end
Like men of glass
They gather
At the edges
Filling themselves with shadows
Only at their darkest
Are they ever really seen
