Stalins War My Theorie
Body upon body lies dead in its grave; some hope for
salvation, something to save. With rum in their eyes,
they lick up their wounds, too hopeless to live, too
tired to care, to witness this sight, to feel the
despair; and now in my own world, I feel nothing but
fear. I look to you for hope, but you are no longer there
and now that you've left me I can see it’s true, the
death of me is the death of you. In an old attic lies
miles of horror, painted in memories, too fresh to spoil.
Color stained hands and crippling lungs couldn't shelter
the world from what it had become. History survived on
the lines of your face; I weep for your glances, your
tired gate. As the time passes I will come to see that
your taste for life was an inspiration to me. How can it
be that everything that comes to me is nothing more than
an illusion. Down a broken road I travel, picking
melodies that seem to shatter; these stones are weapons
always thrown in my direction.
