A Broadcast

It’s that special kind of quiet

Where one might be concerned

But even with this silence

My voice can be misheard

So I’ll sweep the floors

For the ghosts who now reside

The ones who came before

Who never chose a side

I’ll power through the night

For some kind of victory

It’s not pretty, this vulgar life

I’m airing constantly

I’ll get my fill of praise

And taste that bitter love

I guess I’m still afraid

For when you’ve had enough

The sooner my senses leave

The burden I have will go

And the golden boy can be

Paraded down below

and down, I’ll go