It's starting
It's killing
Again and again
It's hurting

Circling inside
Mixing alive
Can't settle
No one can meddle

It's numbing
Blood dripping
Open flesh
Guilted mess

Tears stopping
Head rising
Masking savior
I'm a survivor

There is a moment for everyone.
When stars fall to earth as the moon sings,
dropping its tender notes upon
the glass surface of the sea.
Gently, as if a deep snow had come to life.

The morning fazes out beautiful blue,
the clouds kissed by a warm orange glow,
ablaze like fields of untouched cotton.
Through the gate, we watched the city
as it sank into the lake.

Climbing over and into the street and running,
out of breath, we arrived just in time
to see the people in doors and upon rooftops
look up from below, their shadows
jumping from their fingertips.
They faded away.

Behind us, you said that the skyscrapers
were still not gone.
In the distance, they stared at us,
bright lights in windows, and
dark figures with white eyes, beckoning.

I took your hand and begged you not to go.
That our world was gone, only us two
and the wire fence left behind as proof of existence.

You left anyway.

I watched as your bare feet touched down
upon the asphalt, progressively growing further away,
your back steadily disappearing until
I could look right through.

They embraced you,
took you away into the shadows.

And I stood at the end of that long lake road,
hoping that, if they came for me next,
in trade, the whole rest of the world
would be put back the way it was.

Baby, there's a
white chalk outline in the street tonight
for the boy down the road
who didn't have a chance at life.

There's a lady working down
at the truck stop on Third,
and she's racing home tonight
to confirm what she's heard.

That's her baby in a casket,
not the usual sort,
and his mother's screaming in the storm
begging God to take this hurt.

There's a girl across town
who lost the things she had,
and the only thing she knows now
is the fright that's in her head.

Her father's in the living room
where he loads his shotgun,
almost hoping that the
**** from prom will
show himself again.

There are children in the desert,
in the city, in the streets
and they are dying every day.
All we do is argue
over what is best to say.

The journalists and soldiers,
those who worked a mile high.
Honest folks are turned to martyrs
and their names are used in vain.
No one considers rationale,
only how to profit gain.

We're political, tyrannical, existentially obsessed;
we haven't got a thought for those
who haven't even dressed.

"They aren't here; they're there;
we haven't got the time."
But if there's anything I know,
it's that my time isn't even mine.

"Jimmy wouldn't take me out tonight."
"Martha never called me back!"
"I wish that Art had never talked to me."
"I hope you have a heart attack!"

People dying every day
and no one seems to give a ****.

We are vain and we are damaged
and we will never be the same.
It seems that all which matters
is just how well you play the "game."