Stitched from pieces of Truth
Making a tapestry of a Lie
The signature handiwork
Of the Father of Lies
To which the wicked proudly cling
As vindication and justification
To beat the Truth
To submit to the Lie
Wind shapes open land
Carving its own signature
Painting on canvas
Just imagine that you're standing on a hill looking down
there before you is everything that you didn't own
no one wanted to see you and remembered your song
what you did, the way you conducted yourself was wrong
And yet - there is contrition born out of this condition
even tho the doubters would wish for an explanation
you can't give them one, you are what you've always been
which is a signature in different shades of green
You walked the colonnades and people began to stare
then the whispers: 'You see, isn't that him over there?'
It is no matter - everyone is changed now, mellow somehow
you have to live, try to give, not encounter a silly row
We may all be together again - the way I have returned
and then we'll see just how much we've all really learned
You got yours,
I got mine.
half the time.
This is my original first poem ever written. Tell me what you think!
— The End —