A fistful of shattered sand.
Radioactive gods dismember the foretold of promised land.
The shadows line a silhouette of cliches that tell me where not to go,
as poetry is dead and someone like Frankenstein is busy in the lab.
But the monster unleashed can not salvage, for me, clarity.
While yesterday says sweet things about the wasteland
and mother acts ashamed at my desire to know her before death.
you tell me there is nothing left, I laugh and say there never was
I drink my bottle of wine and quickly type something I promise I will fix later
but days, add up, and problems line the walls of my creative endeavors,
So much frustration and so little reward, for my amusement or for yours?
And I find no solace in a fistful of shattered sand escaping from a desperate hand.
The shadows line a silhouette of cliches that tell me where not to go,
as poetry is dead and someone like Frankenstein is busy in the lab.
But the monster unleashed can not salvage, for me, clarity.
While yesterday says sweet things about the wasteland
and mother acts ashamed at my desire to know her before death.
you tell me there is nothing left, I laugh and say there never was
I drink my bottle of wine and quickly type something I promise I will fix later
but days, add up, and problems line the walls of my creative endeavors,
So much frustration and so little reward, for my amusement or for yours?
And I find no solace in a fistful of shattered sand escaping from a desperate hand.
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