IS this your tongue twisted round breath from blackened lungs?
Your foul words betray you when you stare down the eye.
I see your nights spent wishing, missing the moments behind you.
But where do I find you? Where in this mess of the masses stress?
You don’t seem to peek from the pockets of your bleak cites.
Nor do you dwell among the sad caves of young pity.
Hit me! Hit me! Like an apple on my head. Hit me!
I need to find you even if what I find is already dead.

We can revive this. Life might flow through us once again.
The pen, as a weapon, once more is being used to defend
The will of times killer,  while the crowds wish him condemned.
We can and will fight for the pride of the distasteful tongues,  
the wasteful young, the collapsing lungs that coughed last words
As they were lead to be hung for the killing of time. Just as the bell rung.