A Sonnet for Whiny, Bourgeois Teenagers

A duo stand atop their wide domain,
         A windswept, rolling country that possesses
Pretty trees and silken fields, the softest grain
         Of any, and of course the greenest tresses.
They grasp no clubs, they wear no collared shirts
         And neither do they come for game and jest.
No, these men are wanderers with heavy hurts
         Afflicting deep, that cause them scourge the rest.
Such dreams! Impassioned, fearful so they seem
         By shade of dusk, to see the cycle broken,
To tear apart the veil that covers dreams,
         Construct a place where man is new awoken.          
The pair, resigned to stalk through land of green,
         Have images of reddest future scene.