Out upon the desolate
Not of sand and heat and death…
A desert of the living.
Alone, a warrior girds his loins
And steps into the streets
A steel sword forged of great distrust…
Disdain for all he meets.
A shot slammed down and gulped in haste,
A cold beer in his hand.
Upon his self-made island armored,
Stands the sad faced man.
A damned priest, dogma slave embracing
Tenets tried and true,
That tell him lies of those he’s facing,
Lies of me and you.
And if we dare get close to this
Sore embittered Knight,
He’ll trade us, sell us, whore us out
And justify our plight.
Mirrors shatter, blood infused,
Awakening to stand
Alone in desperation drowned,
There stands the sad faced man.
So hot and sweltered, leather cloaked
Not naked as need be…
His strength’s his weakness, concept flawed,
That he will never see.
Dug in and hunkered down alone,
He shies from talk and touch,
He views them as anathema
Yet needs them oh, so much.
He, she, it and me, you, they
Will always fail to understand,
But in the mirror’s shards we see…
We are that sad faced man.