I've bled the blood of a thousand lies
Tasted the feast of her demise

I've seen her stripping away from time
Like a dying artists rhyme

If it wasn't for the echo of vitality
She would taste an oh bitter reality

Oh she, oh she, blessed without judgment
Criticized without budget

At last she stalks the shadows no more
It wasn't long ago crept the woman from ground floor*

All goes without saying ones demeanor
Is a wild poem hiding a message where the grass is greener.

-Joseph B Schneider