Empty, with a head so light,
Open, terribly hollow and bare,
Distant in the music's air,
They pose like bottles void and white.
Pale white pieces of the foam,
Prey to every wind that flies,
Smoke from a broken train that dies,
Dead plants in the field they roam.
False the wrapping of the flesh,
Baked in life's weariness and pain,
Garment of a soul in vain,
A patch on every boat's torn mesh.
Incapable of every rite,
Clerks in a tear-drenched office space,
They pile up at the building's base,
To draw a virtue's pension, slight.
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