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How innocent
our interests.
Yet we invest
in death
and expect
nothing less
then life.
How
greedy
our beliefs.
We seem to
see clearly
through the
debris of bodies,
though we
only seek
captivity.
(There's
just
enough justice
for us to
keep dreaming
that freedom
can reach
our pretend
reality.)
These
walls
I'm enclosed in
are made of skin.
There's no door
to my soul.
No window
to let in hope.
So
many thoughts
locked inside.
This heart
is a broken home,
and the key knows
no owner.
So I cling close
to the corners,
next to the cobwebs
I've created.
And I'm inbetween
a deep breath,
as my last gasp of
air
was wasted.
When that cadaver
rots away
I'm left here with
the bones of a poem
and nothing
left
to say.
I've died for
a war of words
once more...
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