The Man
What sore eyes has he who tells the story a blur?
You are taken into his void,
Of gaping mouths and frothing sides of fury.
What world so unkind made to collapse his heart?
He lingers like the scent of blue
And it hangs on his neck like the kindred spirit crushed
The foolish soul much alive cant you tell?
For when the old time teller yells,
Throats scream dry and the red smears startle
Does it phase him not the bloody hands he owns?
Here begins the reckoning,
As the spirit leaves him bound to death and cages of bone
For what is a man without grim intention?
That dwells to land unknown.
Terror peers forth unto him and lays ropes of loneliness beside
Shall you let him hug the corner with weary eyes?
For he wishes there to be,
And inside he itches but paints black skies among thee
This is the final plea.
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