I'm Sorry, Lucretius

We all have our demons to face;
erase them not, you are consumed
by the fangs of our dying race
left behind from the haste of conflict.
You're a convict chained in a place
where regret surrounds and haunts you
and change occurs from inside to out
until it suffocates the breath to shout
the ever-urging need to find peace
and an escape from the ceaseless piece,
the melancholic song that is heard
when a bound man hears a bird
realizing freedom comes with a dire price
and the ability to speak is a burden.

What of that Martyr that people pray to
or cry his name at times of peril
or just for the sake of crying his name?
Who takes the blame for the shame
that is this pitiful, helpless existence
for no one wished it so nor
did anyone ever mean to mold
the Urn in which a leak has sprouted
and no doubt that it is slowly shattering -
Forever mirrors behold the Truth;
it's burdensome to stare back
and suddenly realize that
you've been constantly pouring into the Urn
instead of melding the fracture
that began long ago and with mutual indifference
the puddles will turn into lakes and into oceans
until the Urn itself will be drowned.
You will be crowned as monarchs
of a forlorn, forgotten realm
where the lost shatter mirrors
and hope for miracles.