The face hides behind walls and masks
To seem coldly staring as the days pass
Into a shattered shaft of empty dreams
Filled with dust and mice that scream.
I write about the pain inside that tears
A hole of panic into the nun who stares
Helplessly forlorn without a mind that's free
To think out loud and be all she can be.
"I can make it through" says the lazy bum
Staring, not caring, at an empty barrel of bread crumbs.
The lice and dust that creep in there
Once used to be upon his dying hair.
Theres a scent of poison lying in the air
And who can say what will make us all aware
About the next step to take when the train quits
And abruptly tosses out everyone who sits.
Now it is discovered, as the air is blown
That the oxygen's lethal contents are finally shown.
Behind the man who is stabbed in the back, I ask
"Why is it that the poison always stirs masked?"
