Songs of Soul COS No 9: ABAB

As the sun sinks past a white picket fence, still, toils an ingrained meaning all had sworn, past distinct dead plus dying, still, naught sense, prostrate souls taxes, lain of blood-stained worn. Behind atoned stones built by measured hands, preserves naught abandoned lead their resolve, strengthen the talents, challenge tyrant stands, conquered presumption masque as they evolve. Since childhood days, artlessness goes caprice, it sparked this wayward inaneness they craved, grip naught like festering mid-shadowed peace, tarnished stoked o'er wars honor of the brave. Life's freedom o'er all harmless they bestowed, absent of pride -- gave their lives ... those they owed.