I have spent too much of myself
Lamenting the passing of angels
Wanton tears spilled in the path of a train
Is not suffering the life song of cities
Passed memories of the deity of the gun
Do lifegivers not spin blades between their fingers
Cutting away the growths gifted by our sun
Hide and seek is deaths favourite past time
It’s hard to hide when the ends already begun
There is no bigger lie than the purchase of health
Powders ground from the teeth of tanned spectres
Stealing breaths from the lungs of the young
Dead generation sifting through the ashes, once neighbours
Letting the remains settle on the tip of their tongue
Leaves it to mercy of the sanitation committee
Duty bound by the tangles of our own hatred
To feed sad words to the song of our singers
A ligature around which old hands are wrung
More young plants fail so we feed the fire our jesters
Never finding the time to ask if we’re killing all the fun
