Still he trudges to the office
The blinking phone and the flashing screen orients him
The wounded still seek consolation
The ****** hunters need justification
The hunted plot escape
And in the towers, other gray men seek absolution
From what the city has become

As always he carries his soul under his tongue
Worn to a sliver, nearly forgotten
Still he trudges, more slowly now
Time begins to take away the confident stride

At the end of day
Alone in the darkness, in echoing quiet
He pulls the damp sliver from his mouth
And remembers the dream

Her eyes, a tender hand
A living crystal
The liquid fire of life itself
Flashing in the morning air

Surely there is still a path there?
Somewhere in the empty eyed windows
of the endless gaping towers
Something must remain

And as if directed by some secret plan
The tiny crystal glows
Nudges him towards her quiet day
And then the Gray man knows
He knows
So he trudges slowly, slow