Cold Brittle Truth
As a race
We chase the tail of approval
As a race
Cowardice abides
Dissonant souls
And dreary eyes
Measly lies
And tensions rise
As a whole
We march to the melancholy drum
And bathe in the scum
Of what we've become
Oh sadness, my old companion
You, who tore me from childhood fantasy
You, who made my joy a fallacy
You
Seldom is the heart
In a place willing to give
In a place worthy of peace
You're living, at least
Though you may not want to live
As a tribe
We cannot deny
As a tribe
We can no longer lie
Or divided, and lost
We all will die
Copyright © Dylan Montoya | Year Posted 2011
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