Tracks in the sand mark a line of remorse
by Papa Crutch
For a life derailed from a chosen course.
As we plead for exclusion with sweet sublime
And rapidly make mention of a wounded mind,
As we seek for exception with spurious plea,
And lay claim to a heart full of despondency,
The sigh in our voice shows a careless regard
For emotions grown cold and conscience chard.
Don't sing me soft anthems of desolate scorn
Nor lip sync curses of the day you were born;
Breath on the mirror is profuse evidence of
A Spirit's strong will and a flesh not spent.
The pearls we scattered on the sands of time
Lay trampled in dust at the feet of swine;
The cards now dealt must yet be played, and
All our prayers won't make a heart a spade.