A parade of the broken hearted drifts along sorrow’s boulevard. Ashen-eyed and ghost-homed, they know not where they’re going. Their magnetic north: a ballad shambles. For too long, they’ve been buried deep within a grave of wounds. Made dizzy-footed by these disorienting times. Their voices moored to stones that can only recite the bomb’s gospel. The broken hearted don’t ask for much, just to be heard. Above the grinding gears of our world’s unforgiving machines, I hear the parade cry out: never dream you have forgotten how to dream.