Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Poem
Guns for hire, sitting in a row
To be picked by the highest bidder.
Stone faced minions, without much goal
Where they go, what they do, doesn't really matter.
They only hear, they only know, a wish for blood and adventure.
Souls for rent, people used for brutish ends
They live to serve, to serve only
Knowing to question their sanity, but when?
Mired in ceaseless folly
Their strength, they're weak, lost in a pointless venture.
Why did they choose this path,
How did they accept this fate?
Half fate, half forced by unrelentless influences.
Why do they persist in this silly wait?
Silly, silly, dumb.
Just to find a little peace or a place of their own.
Lying exploiting, they do not think their owners' at fault.
Who's to say they're wrong?
Try to save everyone you meet
They fill your hands, and fall back into the chasm.
Try to save the one who matters
Then you'll only get the burnt of hurt.
When will it occur that the wrong thing is being done?
When?
Gavin
pondered @ 20:11
