• The days go by when the weather begins to turn.
    Slowly the door has close,
    When one thought another could learn;
    Their mistakes are easily chosen.
    In the hand of the dark lord;
    Blazing heat remains unbarring,
    People shout, "No More!"
    No one can be of hearing.
    Gas piles high into the air,
    The angels cry on us;
    Clouds puff wildly like hair,
    The light dimmed on me.
    The lock has been placed upon the door,
    As if caging an animal in;
    Slaughtering the helpless poor,
    With a laugh that never ends.
    We are toys filled with no true trust;
    For someone rather dark is playing with us