Like A Wind

Three nobodies, all bristling with pride,
In Robertstown, suburban hell, repose,
With for their lives naught but an unsaid chide,
As fate's slick shards bring common to a close.
These men feel destiny creep slowly nigh,
As like a shadow, drawn tight as a cape.
Misunderstood and malcontent, they cry,
To pleasant men who shut scared eyes to hate.
But hate won't turn to loving joy when shunned,
Nor slowly fade away and fall apart,
But grows and burns, a super-nova sun,
Which cannot stop until it pierce the heart.
Our men give in to shady slick shard's scheme,
And more will follow this infectious suburb dream.