A group of adolescents stand,

bottle in hand,

chaos behind the eyes,

malice on the tongue,

screaming “ Pan!

Why have you forsaken your sons?

The world cares not for you,

we are all that's left of your legacy!”

And they believe this to be true.

An old man sits,

not far down the road,

though rarely,

and not now, seen.

His evolved camouflage

appears to most as a load of refuse.

He also has a bottle held in a hand time molded,

and lines on his face

mapping eons of urban time

in this place,

and they fold

ever so slightly

upon hearing the young ones'

exclamation-

a smile

nostalgic of ignorance.

He knows there is no god

of revelry here,

no god at all-

that he's ever seen,

and he sees all

in this place.