MISTER METZ
Morning mist is throwing spearsof damp and chilling cold.
Mister Metz can't feel his tears,
they've all grown old.
The newspapers are all worn out,
as is he.
He's forgot what it's all about,
what's it like to be.
Oh, some of us fall
into the cradle of truth.
Oh, some of us call
death already in youth.
He prayed a lot back in the days
when his core was still alive.
It's hard to look God in the face,
when you strive to survive.
He kneels low, an altar of booze.
"Make my survival into something true!"
He was always made to lose.
He'll always be an image of you.
Oh, some of us fall
into the cradle of truth.
Oh, some of us call
death already in youth.
Poetry by Daybreaker
Read 381 times
Written on 2006-09-26 at 12:21
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