To Whom It May Concern

We stand alone.

We, the brave.

We stand tall, when others are 'round.

We stand, but fall, to the heartless ground.

We stand, for what? An idea, a phrase.

We stand, and wait for those final days.

When we can stand together as one.

We stand idle, until the task is done.

When the words so peirce and cut our skin.

Our skin of steel, that allows us to win.

To win our hearts, made of purest gold.

But, oh how lonely the wait in the cold.

The cold embrace of this fragile world.

Where the people of intellect are only old.

And the feeble are fleeting, from high to high.

Never in a rush to say goodbye.

To the thing that runs, like a cat from a dog.

Into the perilous, eternal bog.

So it's here that the brave, and the cunning, and wild.

Stand here and wait, like an obediant child.