Small rivulets
of blood
small creeks
cut in the mud
the mud of strife
the banks of life.
The trail of a race
the grief on your face
when knowing the truth
knowing there's nothing left.
Nothing left
of you or I
All is gone
but the tears I cry
The tears I cry
for those lives lost
no matter what the cost
those who
those who
own the land,
those who are
those who are
young butlers,
to open the door
the door from life
the door to death
while you sit helpless
in the window,
wallow in your
with nothing left to
nothing but
what you lost.
lost. Lost and alone
in the end we all are
in the end we
yet never find
to find someone
of like mind
someone to cry
with someone to die
within the stone walls
you have built for yourself.
yourself, searching
for the lies that
were baught,
the truths that
were taught,
taught to the young,
lost to old,
lost in the sands
of times
there you wander
wander and wonder
wonder why
you can't fly
but stay earthbound
with naught to be found
but yourself.
Youself sitting on
the banks,
wishing you could
have given thanks,
thanked your loved one
one last time,
before they left,
before the crime,
crime, crime, the
crime of life
the crime of dieing
to leave others
in strife,
sitting there,
without a care,
but why can't you?
You, insignificant,
in the worlds path,
you have no say,
if you voice your wrath,
put down, shaken,
nowhere left to stand,
throughout the land
throughout the land,
they suffer,
they die,
the father leaves
child and mother cry.
Cry. Cry tiny rivulets of blood against the sands of time.