Sedative

We're tired, broken down by fear,
A whispered, angry souvenir
Reminds us of the time we lost
When we became our own judge, jury, and cost.
And now, to myself, for my randsom,
My only requiem must be sung.
For my funeral pire is testing my ties...
My only solice is ashy butterflies.
To whom now should my love be paid,
The anthem how be sung,
When my faith walks on broken glass?
Memories are the only things that last.