In a city called home rusty metal rattles, where street lights bleed into the sky. Sit and sleep in musty flannel, let the world pass by. Uncalled for communion, may peace be with us all. Folded up in concrete chairs underneath wooden creaking arms. Hair raised, back of neck, little choirs sing the praise of each minute that passes. Coaxed through blood, red life preservers looking like candy store drugs. We have issues of non-communication, mute but never deaf, dumb, or blind. Hands, holding little paper cranes, incomparable with metal giraffes in industrial zoos. Placated thoughts, trembling, little excuses left to rot.
You ask me why we break these shelves,
You ask me why we don't go to battle ourselves
Well why can't I rise above the rest and come tell the stories of the best
They knew how to fight and how to lead
Their eyes knew no fright as their might conquered all.
Where the greatest have gone to die.
Young, charming, and full of romance.
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