Profound are the cracks on their surfaces,
Their walls seep deep,
And incubate the caveats of the stone face.
Stiffened by lack of emotion and a broken lens,
Through which the broken boys view the world
It passively plagues the paths
That proffers an oasis for his soul's healing.
From the absent father,
To the broken mother,
To ghetto that stepped in to become his family.
Woe to the day of the heavy rains.
For they only always touch but the surface.
They burn deep yet never heal,
Whilst the caveats sting like open wounds.
Occasional flooding into their dry places.
As the sun comes up, they must keep going.
The streaks form like a mosaic of tempered glass.
Though He manage a smile behind the deep voice,
To woo the girls into his dungeon of raw pain,
The desert rain knows his whimpering.
A broken surface desensitised unable to respond.
The acidic rain seeps deep,
Burns deep on the creases of the stern faces,
Of the broken boys trapped in our men who never
Let the rain in as an outlet growing pains.