Cincinnati, oh, United States
Shadows grasped in clenched hand
A soul alone within an unstable land,
reapers harvest fields from dying earth..
no talks about the little growth
ever so less than twelve moons past...
and the winds whistles by,
shearing the ground,
carring with it less than fertile soil,
so much like sand..
but how much was proclaimed
of the coming of this age..
where anything was possible..
everything to create..
how much like little Gods shall we be!
and that soul alone says to himself
"oh, then why can't they a single tree?"
and time flows on,
like the rivers once did..
and the clock still howl at time to break..
so much like the long past howl
of wolves on the plains..
Yet the tide still rises and falls..
and I hear the fishing still good,
since the mid-east is a beach and all
And to those who did this my land..
They all died with the plague
and I can't really hate them for any cause...
For what did I do to stop this all?
I sat, a lonely soul in a world full of gods.
and shopped at the closest mall..