Backstreet, open doors, Small town, empty pockets for the poor: That's where they go When they linger on the last shred of hope; Only flying toward a blank journal page When the writer's have lost all passion in their artistic haze.
Closed minds, wings that were not meant to soar, Tired eyes, broken hearts falling to the floor: That's where they go While they ingest sorrow on a withering soul And they march on weary feet To a battlefield drenched in defeat.
Puffy faces, starving stomachs demanding more, Feeding hatred, love dying like never before: That's where they go As the wind blows To a place of shattered picture frames And tombstones carved with their names.
But, where do they go When the judgment begins to ***** And they're left on the last shred of hope?