Above me stands a man of steel,
Whose metallic veins run dry,
And whose heart cries out to me,
Beseechingly,
Longing to know what is real.

Above me stands a man of sorrow,
Whose mouth speaks not a word,
And whose eyes stare out hungrily,
Raking me,
Only thinking of their tomorrow.

Above me stands a man of wood,
Whose splintered hands extend,
And whose fingers grasp at me,
Imploringly,
Reaching so that they might be understood.

Above me stands a man of frailty,
Whose heart was glass,
And whose thoughts shine brilliantly,
Blinding me,
Wishing only for a moment’s ecstasy.

But such things cannot be borrowed.