Questioning the moments of yesterday.
Broken down with justifiable contrite.
Tears upon hands will never wash the red display
That played God with crude metal toys.
Blood stains these clothes as I look into eyes
Filled with terror but the background noise
Drills hard in my soul but I clinch away my cries,
Of what moral humanity I once possessed
Of what moral humanity I once possessed
Now burns straight through the skull,
Watching in utter tormented anguish as I molest
It; leaving only a empty, lonely, sad hull.
Tomorrow I will visit the graves of the dead.
Tomorrow my tears will shed a crimson red.
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