When death is like a wooden arrow,
a swift and sleek barrel and blow,
listen to soft words of heavy hate,
dragging you slowly towards the bait,
bringing upon grievances of disposition,
gliding in like a fresh new apparition,
where clouds loose heart and grow gray,
and pain does settle eternally and lay,
with people of bodies of perfection dismal,
echoing their self-worth in comforting lull,
soft tears stream down innocent cheeks,
holding it down for this world of the meek,
blame does freely fly from one to the other,
raining in staining acid upon one another,
children wearing personal guilt like mud,
unable to bloom like a spring bud,
tragedy is written in documents of reality,
chaining those spirits in hopes to be free,
dimensions of sensations in impurity,
vanity in times only permitted by humility,
tears roll down in times of easy calm,
aching in wonder like a medicinal balm,
when spontaneity is rushing home,
engraving wounds brought to the tomb,
we cry at our self started genocide,
bleeding from all in hate-driven suicide...
