"distilates" poems
And they said that faith is for the weak,
And they said that we are dead.
That we can't fight,
That our blood is filthy,
That our eyes cant see the light.
We look up at the bright sky,
But we paint darkness.
We are trying to hunt
The vengeful freedom,
But we fall,
And we break our spirit.
Who distilates the blood from the water?
Who remembers the smile of a brother?
Who says we cannot rise,
Are we not murderers of the heart?
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC