Sun sets on the Golden State;
Street lamps, they illuminate
The dark recesses of my soul,
The darkest parts which I don’t know,

Breaking through the fragile facade,
Through empty prayers to a faithless god,
Awakening my tired soul,
Awakening my aching bones.

Too often I fantasize
Of a youth romanticized
Because I just want to escape
From a reality that I contrive.

I could never achieve this,
The ignorant sense of bliss.
Instead, I spill my blood upon the page
And cry over the Gilded Age.

I wade through a sea of masks
Of broken hearts and broken glass.
I look down at them and see
Friendly faces staring back at me.

We mourn our loss of innocence
And our collective diffidence.
We’re weighed down by our hearts of stone:
Born from chasing dreams that aren’t our own.

Too often we fantasize
Of a youth romanticized
Because we just want to escape
From a reality that we contrive.

We could never achieve this,
The ignorant sense of bliss.
Instead, We spill our blood upon the page
And cry over the Gilded Age.