I am afraid this will not be the last;
the show of love for hate before we lose,
chords so unmusical we cry to sing
For lust for impurities, we die fast,
dig to replace seeds with stones, that we choose
where the scorpion kisses with its sting
We make merry in pain, if i am asked.
A dialogue is a diseased excuse,
a harm, so good, it’s enough for nothing.
Then we sit and say history has passed.
We erase the footprints left by its shoes,
yet search for one befitting of a King?
To another, we must concede to cede.
This is a race not needing speed.