The blackened beating heart of man,
Oozing a dark sludge,
Coating the innocent, and the lost,
Covering them in a miasma of loss,
A lost soul
Stab the heart stab the heart,
Death becomes a lyric lark,
Run you can not the heart will find,
Run you can not the greed will blind,
Man and his black heart,
Born of animus,
Yet trying to deny,
Darkness in their own souls.
Hiding it with comedy masks,
Dancing upon a stage of crumbling dreams,
Feeding off the strong and hefty,
The weak and meek writhing and crawling,
Looking for another beings greatness,
To latch upon and make their own,
In some small lonely way.
©BAS