A question leaves the gate as fables count apostles.
Stitches hold the wound at bay while the cavalry blossoms.
Dried lungs split blood and the dirt is stained with losses.
We beg and scream for peace, but peace is strung on crosses.
Marching the crusade with a whimpering smile.
Masking the pain like the death of a child.
Without a shiver or judgement
A grave is just a grave.
Noble deeds only pacify, as we tread each priceless hour.
Crippled men carry lifeless limbs; if only time would let them borrow.
Some free time or some lost space, it would do our simple thoughts right in.
Some free will or a thick rope.
I believe, would do just the same.
Without a shiver or judgement
A grave is just a grave
Dried lungs split blood and the dirt is stained with losses.
We beg and scream for peace, but peace is strung on crosses.
Holy wars only pauperize; as we drill straight to the bottom.
Prostitutes flirt with casualties; dancing round such casual causes
A question leaves the gates as we trample all, the sick, the weak.
Dried lungs split blood
While Martyrs hang from crosses
We beg and scream
The dirt is stained with losses
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