The Amputated Gods Of Old
I look around and they seem like the amputated gods of old,
by uchenna nnodum
Making promises that are never fulfilled,
Making us drink from their unclean spring of flowing lies.
And soon a story of a man would be told,
Who wound come and our wounds healed,
Would this be when our hope dies?
Or is it to test our patience in this delay?
Until our bodies die and start to decay
If we can make the world still
Can we make the time not to fly?
If be it then, we will
To make them dream in their tales of lie.