He sits on his rocking chair
tallying accounts...
See a pallet of beautiful
Colours shining bright...
I hear a story of a little girl, starving and in...
I hear a story of a race where there is no...
Take me away
to where the sands...
It was hell from heaven:
She touched that skin with so much care...
I see people walking
down the street...
I was born and raised
in the warm heart of Africa...
A petal danced upon the wind,
Timely floating from our sin...
Hypnotized by street lights, I breathe springtime
eyes fixed upon dirty streets, laced with fallen...
The End
Hearing those words amused and exasperated me...
Sign of the times, progress.
No longer do we use normal words...
When he left, he was 18
and didn't know that the road to hell was paved...