Filthy skies, soiled eyes.
Your eyes' skin possesses a truth.
You have nothing, no more to say.
The fellows have become dispassionate beasts,
beasts of triggermongering, of diluation, of possession. You beg, you
somber, you plead to see some light behind the gleam. The gleam of travelers
passing by, the gleam of sorrow in fellows' eye. Their lives tragic and
with not truth, they have nothing to grasp, nothing to implant.
They long for a chance to see what it is like to be so free-- as free as the
sand that laces the shore,
They really just want something more.
Something that they can simply look forward to.
Frivilous to imply that they cannot do,
let's feed their desire to live, to truly live,
by fertilizing the foundation for their trail to, a place where no one
knew.
That existed on such a planet, a planet all took for granted.


 
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