Of my flesh, the trip , the pressure.
The rug, the rash, the knee, the kiss.
The sigh and solemn bliss.
And want for all of this, when I am only clay.
At the earliest moments
Of time.
The yester, yesterday.
So now I'll recollect,
forwarned narrow sight.
And see the blood, the fear,
the risk.
And count my every slight
For many years I threaded needles,
Dictating a yarn.
Spun of lies with silent cries,
And desicated eyes.
That found me full of nothing,
And emptiness the proof.
A bully to
you and me
The hope filled forfeit truth.
For this is fight, and nothing more with waning of our youth.
The endless pool of doing, with weary broken back.
For selfishly we hobble,
When steel we find us lack.
So on to the future.
With souls, we nought to the rack.
It best we set our sights to then,
And never stray the track.
