There's dope in your soul,
Like the hand of Fate,
Might be truth you stole,
Or the Shame you ate,
Smile whitest to blackest few,
Bitter fruits that feed-Eating you,
Darkened, rusted remnants,
Of who you once were,
Laid where you though they would rest,
Just to wake and leave you a clue,
A squallor of Guilt,
The Foundation of what you built,
In Reverse.Your body it's own Hurst,
And yet you still thirst,
For nothing but dirt,
The last stop is your first,
Step from the abyss of your despair,
There are no sharp corners,
Amongst the Light and Air,
A broken heart may yet bleed,
Aching to be freed,By your own wretched hand,
Facing yourself is hardest,
When making a stand.
By Patrick Jones Posted 04/27/12
