• On this broken chair I sit
    Weak and old, yet still I writ
    of words interred from passing times
    of girls and poems; of things divine

    Pencil lead still loops and twirls
    sketching, here, a darker world
    in stanzas four, so organized
    a land is made before thine eyes

    See what lies beneath this mask
    Gold and amber in a flask
    reveals the shades that sepia tones
    have caref'ly hidden for their own

    Buggy cars and dusty roads
    Girls as maidens, men as toads
    in caves we dwelled, our spears we held
    of simpler times this graphite tells

    Wars were fought with guns and swords
    Scribes would write with loaded words
    our books can tell of generals fierce
    but truths of times they cannot pierce

    Every story has two sides
    Hist'ry skipping many lives
    these books are written by those who've won
    if seek you heroes, know here there's none

    Glorious charges, demon's sins
    All you'll find contained within
    the yarns of men who died in vain
    in here, they are not contained

    Why not tell us these, you ask?
    Why not show the darkened past?
    the public can not be allowed to see
    what really happens through history.