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a soul that's
lived a life that's fed up
always ends up
in a landfill
full of souls
we bury the things we treasure
assume if you must
people are not always right
so assume with care
To all the men I could never love
I wanna say it wasn't me, nor you
To all the lips I left unkissed
And words regrettably untrue

To all the hearts I never accepted
Minds I've changed
And souls I never defended

To all the tears I've caused to shed
And the endless hours I left you
stranded in your head

To all the men I could never love
And the only one I do
You may think you know what it means... but how can you? When I myself have no clue
 Dec 2016 Nic Sutcliffe
Tom Balch
Co-Lab with Maggie Magnolia.



On a cold Christmas morn long years ago
lay a soft fresh dusting of pure white snow,
covering the trenches and no man’s land
turning signs of a war to a place so grand,
somehow this beauty affected all men
the cold winter silence broken and then,
a single voice singing O Silent Night
sung so beautifully putting things right.

Everyone joined in from every side
then Stille Nacht stopped all men in their stride,
and with every line the voices just grew
all men sang Schlaf in himmlicher ruh,
they laid down their arms and walked unafraid
meeting the enemy on this Christmas day,
showing their photos of loved ones back home
friendships were formed and a hate for war grown.

Each man and young boy were afraid on that day
but good actors they were, all their fears hid away,
grasping that moment of peace in their hands
they thought of their loved ones and dared to make plans,
alas all was lost as new shots reigned clear
in place of their hopes was a fresh feeling of fear,
nothing has changed as we march forward to war
this Christmas we ask: What was it all for?

On this cold Christmas morn stood in the snow
are millions of crosses row after row,
each bearing a number, unit and name
reminding us all that war´s not just a game,
and yet they played football in no man’s land
forgetting for a moment wars evil plan,
the spirit of Christmas had won over the day
the soldiers became friends to the generals dismay
.
the burden of proof rests on the accuser
failure of which would determine the loser
i shudder to think i was ready to lose her
if ever it turned out to be true

but then again,

the burden of trust lies with the diplomat
who flits back and forth, what's with that?
as hard as i try to figure where you're at
if it really, solemnly was you

rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat.

it's best not to judge but don't be naive
you never know what they've got stashed up their sleeve.

— The End —