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8/16/11 05:33 pm

What We Become

A cracked vase that once held a rose
That withered and died like the feelings enclosed
Serves a cold welcome to an empty house
Where remnants lie of a life now ghost
Now we make firewood of envelopes
And hate the things once loved the most
But memories won't go up in smoke
Won't catch aflame
Won't decompose

Rust machines, cogs so clogged
We are the worst part
Of what we still are
Molded dreams, scum so numb
We are the worst part
Of what we become

An empty stadium built from bone
There's nothing but skeletons wearing clothes
Serving cold welcomes to empty homes
Where remnants lie of organs disposed
Now we fall fools to our nature's hold
And lay down without care or control
But our regrets will only grow
Will weigh so heavy
Will crush a soul

Frozen people, hearts so hard
We are the worst part
Of what we still are
Storming brains, succumbed to dumb
We are the worst part
Of what we become

So here's my cold welcome to an empty home
Where remnants lie of feelings transposed
Now I make firewood of notes I wrote
That tell the story of the man I've sold

There's only the story of the man I've sold.
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