The days are sporadic,
cruel and mean.
I look into eyes,
I see the unclean.
Spirits of past,
Demons of friends.
When shall we pass?
From freedom to reign?
Mining for Oil?
Mining for Fear?
It is just a mineral,
that is in all of here.
Walking, talking, blocking.
The blabber annoys!
Chattering of some
rattles the rocks.
Finding your way,
from this turn or burn?
Which is the hurt,
that causes the turn?
In the end,
it's just simply the blurt:
One of the many
making the mirth.
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