 The years of torment flowing in the blood of our kind;
The scent of burning skin is still fresh on our mind.  The irrelevant cries of a humble voice drone faintly under the bustle;
While the theft of spirit brings absence home, its sound is but a light rustle.  Dying of thought through the engulfment of the night;
The weakened shoulders stooping, never seeing light.  These crumbling wooden doors lead us deep into the past;
We dare to venture further, it seems we’ve found something to last.  The shimmer of light on the shroud of hope;
A morning collective, with which to cope.  The beauty that exists in the wreckage often stronger than the others;
Rubble has greater value than structure, just not easy to uncover.  Pushing to others their pain under pressure, a strength for the wicked;
Too heavy a weight for anyone, lest you label them convicted.  The burdens weigh heavy on all that they blanket;
There is nothing left for the suffering but to be patient.  Keep quiet as you drown in the deep mire;
For I know a fireman who looks after the fire.  I’m deleting my past through a series of buttons;
A quick deletion of memory so that it may be forgotten.  The fires burn bright when worth is high;
Yet they dwindle to cinders when the dusk is nigh.  With the weight of the sun heavy on the woodland;
The trees succumb to blazes at the request of human hand.  A feeling of warmth over a refuge of stone;
The comfort together, no longer alone.  The wailing voice of the wind stretches over the hillside;
In the dusk of souls I will join you wherever you hide.  An array of light and realization of rushing fire;
Through the trees seeking air when our breath will expire.  A thin line dividing the sky from the earth;
So that a scene of destruction may exist for our mirth.  Sing a lullaby, drain the poison from the earth;
The stinging of rope on skin, cumbersome burden to bear.  Weep beside this oak, lend your tears to the bark;
Cry a silent storm as draws near your doom.  I aim to heal you, bring end to your pain and relief to your aching;
Because this time it’s worth more than the chance we’re taking.  One seed of thought will grow in me, a florid meadow;
A single spark will burn it all, dust blown to echoes.  The ghosts of liberty weep through the years;
While shadows that follow refuse to clean their tears.  For the burdens to come, may we together share the blame;
I want my house and home to be one in the same.  As your body and mind are beginning to rust;
I’ll be there to catch you as your being turns to dust.  A plague of guilt falling over the firmament;
And day breaks over the gardens of the ether. |
