The Ballad of the Broken

He must wait.

Now all of you are to be left behind. Old shattered ideas. Made with every trace of hope and faith He had. Only to be rejected. Forced to start fresh  and new, time after time. We are a dump of those. Our ballad of the broken. Only to have dead melody. Dissolved rhythms and tunes. Only now He remains. Looking back on what he made. Sometimes dead or on the verge of it. Never truly gone. For he has left a unrecognized trail of himself. Carrying the weight on his weak bloody back. Only to be 'fixed' with a simple 'Fine.' Now he sits and waits. Pacing sometimes, trying to find purpose.  He whimper and cry to the sky, only to receive the virtual sense. Now he is to wait.