No rage to destroy no pain on the heart to crush. Futile his skills with pen and brush. Does the spirit forsake? The comfort to hear, riches to see, still destitute he be. No tears, no laughs, no screams, no prayers, no energy in the trigger finger to let of the call flares, rain beats out of beating onto the white glass as waves hit shore. Empty, void. I would sooner cry a battle hymn and prepare for war.