All men's fall begin's at home,
Where room's lie cold, all alone,
Within these room's,
Empty and void,
Where lie their feeling's; emotion's toyed,
Beneath their feet lies shattered glass,
Fragments of memories long since past,
Of haunting fear's of smouldering ash,
Of there passion and light that did not last,
Cold wind's blow through the windowed room's,
Which harden all the liquid gloom.
Through the room's, far away,
A glimmer of hope shine's through dismay,
A gland of a better day,
So through the field of glass men tread,
Feeling's bare and oh so red,
A tiresome journey they all do dread,
But a task that must be done.
Men reach out and begin to run,
Light draws in, closer and closer,
Then does fade for a while,
Till men rethink for several mile's,
Of journey once done in future and past,
Blink's to find memories which do last,
Of friend's within those empty room's,
Which once was filled with but gloom,
For mankind will fall, forever alone,
Till a hidden hand pull's them through,
Because together, we strive true,
Through their own journey,
To raise another,
For them to rise and see each other,
In age's past and future's sight,
The cycle begin's to rewrite,
As tale's past from one to another,
A family tie, begins another.
