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.