My forsaken land

My table grand as polish porcelain 

Solid, un-aging oak beneath our hands

We sit on stools of brittle sand

Each member weary of their grasping hands

This rare day is quiet, not peaceful though 

For all the seats have crumbled some

A heavy darkness lies above our hate

A hidden worry for each of our fates

Three have fallen, positions torn

Taken by those grasping hands

Within the sand their voices leach

A soft melodic siren screech

Hoods high up shadow porcelain masks 

Each of us breath those words at last

Our voices soft but not distinct. We know

We understand, this table lasts but not our hands

It's usually loud here, in this caverns hand

We shout, we yell, we spite, alright 

But when we felt that shudder, and shake 

This cavern grinding full of sand

How much longer can we last in spite

Division fills us all tonight 

This cave is crumbling above our heads

But we'll do nothing but argue instead