I was a ghost in a country of
                  shadows, where no one knew
                            who belonged and


who was the enemy.

Travelling on dirt roads,
                    a thousand year old walk ways
                    that had a ominous version.


A road to travellers of a far away, not knowing
                   the traps of improvised fear.
                    Diluted thoughts reflect on


hand covering death beneath the surface.


And when they ran in the fields of dust,
           a message from above kissed reality,
                                and they fell beneath the sands.


But there presence was lingering,  as there fear tore
                apart what travelled the roads after they'd left.


Crimson kissed the past present
              and the moments that died afterwards.

We die, we live, we are what collected
            before the silence.
            Dying for the freedom of those
                         who walk streets casually.

Our hearts stopped, so there footsteps could
                                                 walk on.