This is the loneliest age to be kind,
To stand with your heart wide-open, entwined.
While the world walks past with their eyes sunk low,
Too busy, too broken, too fearful to know.

That the good man waits in the quiet and cold,
His virtue’s like armor, his love growing old.
They call him naive, the call him too soft,
Yet they push him away and tell him to f*ck off.

There’s no thoughts of compassion, of standing apart,
Yet he carries his decency deep in his heart.
The cruel are rewarded, the liars adored,
While the good man is doubted, blatantly ignored.

He opens his doors, yet few step inside,
He speaks with his truth, but they think it’s a lie.
For the world wants the flash, the fury, the noise,
Not the steady, the gentle, voices that do not destroy.

So he walks through the crowds like a ghost in the light,
Too solid for shadow’s, too pure for the night.
Oh, what’s the wage of a man who stays true?
A handful of memories, a love far too few.

But the good man remains, though the age turns away,
A relic of honor, in the ruins of today