The Bones

The bones that stain this meadow
make a sound so thin and sweet
as we blindly tread upon them
and they break beneath our feet

And we weep ourselves to blindness
as we laugh the pain away
Would we strive, if given reason,
to survive another day?

Would we love the lilac sunset?
Or await the crimson dawn?
Would we sell our souls to pleasure
and then die upon this lawn?

We have paid the price for freedom
and have lost ourselves in lies
for the thousand unlit candles
we have buried in our eyes

There is nothing left inside us
save a trace of something cold
Just a shiny piece of metal
that I’m sure we could have sold