Wasteland
The years of our youth,
Spent behind the bottles of booze;
Behind the booths and the bars,
Behind these dark red scars.
The siren warned of this life,
But the flashing lights will win the buzz of sight.
Fallen, and also blinded by the truth;
No grabbing of the hands,
Except for this bottle of booze.
Laying on my back,
Looking up at summer;
The thunder,
The thunder,
The rolling of winds;
Laying on this rock is where the beginning now ends.
Waste.
Waste.
Waste.
Lands.
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