Backstreet, open doors,
Small town, empty pockets for the poor:
That's where they go
When they linger on the last shred of hope;
Only flying toward a blank journal page
When the writer's have lost all passion in their artistic haze.
Closed minds, wings that were not meant to soar,
Tired eyes, broken hearts falling to the floor:
That's where they go
While they ingest sorrow on a withering soul
And they march on weary feet
To a battlefield drenched in defeat.
Puffy faces, starving stomachs demanding more,
Feeding hatred, love dying like never before:
That's where they go
As the wind blows
To a place of shattered picture frames
And tombstones carved with their names.
But, where do they go
When the judgment begins to *****
And they're left on the last shred of hope?
I love prophetic pieces, don't you?
