Death

Where to turn,
Where to turn…
Going home with a twisted soul,
With a heart dipped in coal,
Along with the pissed out train cars,
Destitute philosophize a cause,
Under the slow drip of sand,
A mile from hell, a mile from the fruit stand,
A seven eleven along life’s promenade,
She forgot her place and prayed,
Found Adam hold’in a spade,

Nowhere to turn,
Nowhere to turn…
A lamp post and a twisted rope,
Bastard goin’ ta hang,
Priests goin, ta pray,
Corrupted pipes and black berets,
Bombs and ballots lose their merit,
To the tune of their transgression,
All is given up in confession,
An alter to golden possessions,

A trick to turn,
A trick to turn…
Man in all his proportions,
All that’s left is her distortions,
A Grain of rice to fill a glass,
The trickle of blood to fill the mass,
Madness in quite sanctuaries thrive,
Nothing left to do…

…but live.