Spinning thoughts reel to and fro
Giving a constant sound to the carnage.
Some sharp words scrape to know
What’s on the outside. Escaping their cage.
Nothing more than a dark crow
Cawing at the moon. Begging for the page
To turn, abandoning the past so it may grow,
But finding every plea unheard. Rage,
Does rage ensue? Cast aside on an ice floe
Left to its devices. Somehow it will manage.
The world’s cruelty tells us just to row
Down this river when we try to disengage.
I let go of my desolate feelings like snow
Falling from the sky. The end of an age.
The blade of my beliefs pierces muddy soil
Sealing itself in a prison made of my own toil.
My heart, torn by the sight, oozes burning oil.
Do I pick up the blade once again
Or should I walk away for the rest of my life?
I’m sure a man sits upon an eave playing a fife
To my struggle against my flaw, my sin.
If I pick it up I will blind myself with glory.
No one will pull me back. It’ll be my story.
In my own hands I will either lose or win.
I really only wanted to make things right
But somehow along the way I lost my sight.
A dam I constructed to keep out the flood
That has been filling my mind with mud.
I let the sword drop to the ground with a thud,
Pick up what remains of me, wash off the blood,
And move along. For my heart is still but a bud.
Someday my heart might bloom to be beautiful and freed.
And the sword will return on that day under a new creed.