Telling stories through poetry
is the oldest tradition of all time
now gather round while I try
to lend this tale of mine to rhyme
There once was this guy
He was called “Priestâ€
He’s not a holy man
Not really a man at all
Just a forgotten child
Closed off behind these four walls
He won’t tell you what he’s thinking
Even if you think you know him really well
Cos dead men don’t have a voice of their own
And he may as well be dead by now
He pushed his way through this trade
It began as all just a game
Not for money, for sway
Then the years began to dwindle away
And “Priest†is what he became
Memories fade, he forget everything
He forgot his own name
As he gazes out at the monochrome view
He knows what he must do
He knows his destiny will be the same as his past
He knows this breath could be his last
You can see him in the tunic
Dangling prayer beads
Sweaty hands, shaking clutching them tight
Still whispering to a spirit
On the other side
