The Man of Glass

The man is far too quiet for his kind

Whose usual raucous lives are made of stone

His seems made of glass and full of lines

That in the end have sealed in the cold

But he does have no master but his god

That you can tell for sure of his deep eyes

He has no follower, no one at home

No one to cry in sorrow or surprise

He’s not one often asked to tell his story

But you know that he is still prepared to tell

That his tales are full of hunger and of glory

But for this you’ve no desire to impel

For you’ve your own thoughts on his sunken face

Your own ideas of how he turned so cold

You’ve laid his life out free of all disgrace

You’ve made his story full of summer’s gold

And if he were to tell you something other

That the conquered were in fact his own of late

You’d never see him thus, but as another

Someone full of depth and full of fate

He shant become another man, you swear

You’ll keep him as the one who turned the tides

And found himself alone except for air

In this place, as darkness deftly quells the lights