The wood panels shine but are not brilliant
Streaked with sweat and blood and the stench of time
The air is filled by the roar of the vent
Dully droning its tune in throaty rhyme
Young people dawdle on bleachers hanging
Between the wooden slopes and the urban
Valleys; used to lies, deceit, haranguing
From those who should guide but lead into hell
Is there potential there, like rosy Dawn?
Cracking knuckles in the sky that turn white
Then blue from the brilliance of the green lawn
They may never possess, but the sun stays bright
Over all things, even asphalt and dust
All souls are savable, until the dusk.