Tortured Souls

Twisted tornado of tortured souls,

Spiralling down like a toilet bowl,

Molten gold in a royal mould,

Spoiled boy who's four years old

The more he's told, the less he listens,

Doesn't interest him unless it glistens,

Pistons, pumping, pushing, thumping,

clumping everything you are into a ball,

packaged in a box on a shelf in a mall,

In a small little town never had much at all,

Just an old phone booth with no one to call,

In the fall, the snow comes early cause its far north,

but we adapt to the cold and we march forth,

like a dark horse trotting in the mud,

battling and ravaging, the bodies and the blood,

scavenging and scraping by, gashed open gaping thigh,

slashed by the soldier that I killed, now his blade is mine,

I remain numb, though I will succumb to change in time.