No Name Poem

Sitting here, listening to the rain's pattering racket.
The shield, impervious to entering contents worth mentioning continues to exist.

Pondering thoughts of anguish are the ones which are let in; What hope?

What is one worth to this wasteland?
What is it worth to one?

Soaking, acid rain continues to fall, burning the ground on which it lands.

Stinging tears drop and burn, sting and whip through the soul.

Eyes gouged and ears blocked, diseased as they are, they walk.

Sickeningly naive are the emotions that run frozen within; A plague refusing to leave.

Around they prance, so oblivious.
Poor souls, Poor souls.