The trail is a trodden path, lost in a optics grasp
skills that became formulated on a thoughtless mass
decorated by memorials, hung to dry on the towel rings
the bath tub of death, soaks into the night, howling....
echoes, the hallways generate candle lit spectres
you can feel the pressure slide down your back a heckler
reminding you of a passion lost in the moments of growth
especially when pictures fall and mirrors shatter, a omen to folks
see the faccade carries on as a child to a mentor's "no"
he touched the heat, let it go, in pain rushed to the winter's snow
buried his marks deep, but as the night fades so does description
a prisoner convicted by affliction, dedicated to foul indictions
a man that became the villian, as his chair fell back, his feet risen
the resin of the mind was scrapped out, as the world faced doubt
they said he made rounds, but never gave a damn for God's sake...
now.....his grasp with held the monotony, it was a cold cluth
realizing the wrong he has done, he left his mind smoked up......
so was the madness a dream? or was it just a piece sewn up
could the killer be a man, who found his wife with his own blood?
or was he certainly mad, and could no longer deal with the unknown
thus......the story continues of life in this world that tries to console us
and so goes the dastard's deeds
a man who foiled up mastered dreams
saw no tomorrow.....alas....we believe
-- Sun Jul 25, 2010 11:58 am --
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