The world is cold for babies born on fire,
Born to an addicted open secret.
The arbiters of order do not weep,
Their rule navigates on a tearful sea;
They're blind to them. A world with eyes downcast
Hurries along, greasing its gears with blood.

An inheritor of doubly-cursed blood,
But still a child with the spirit of fire;
Yet convinced their being is void, downcast,
Born a refugee of wars kept secret.
Childhood, an island in the stonefaced sea,
Smacks with wonder, but fear enough to weep.

And so he grew, differently, he would weep,
Afraid of a chill that runs through his blood,
Barely comprehended deep in the sea
Of adults' opinions and burns like fire
From other children's glances. Some secret
Rift separates, blown by a bolt downcast.

What does it mean—human—for one downcast
From ideal oblivion? All kids weep,
But tears like oil slither with a secret:
That he will not continue his line's blood.
While they could share the creation of fire,
A dirge beckons him down into the sea.

He snatches a breath, choking as the sea
Submerges his ears and nose; lost, downcast,
He crawls pronated to each distant fire,
Specters in the glittering sands which weep.
Can he even have what runs through his blood?
His unreachability his secret.

The mirror's years refused to keep secret
The prognosis of loneliness. A sea
Of whiskey and narcotics in his blood
Carries him from his own body's downcast;
Failing each time he tries to love, he weeps.
Did he wish for an all-consuming fire?

For fire it was—it burned every secret
And leapt, weeping, into memory's sea:
His downcast grimace in a pool of blood.