Beating on Tin

In time we find the truths behind the lies.

And over our dead bodies are the flies.

Buzzing, hovering, discovering.

Buzzing, hovering, decaying.

We take a deep breath and try to move on.

But we are too late, it's all gone.

Whispering, breathing, leaving.

Whispering, breathing, deceiving.

Leaves drift down on silent winds.

A child's cry, no better than beating on tins.

Left, right, down.

Left, right, drown.

Left to wallow in self pity.

It's no wonder they left the city.

Time stands still.

Time stands alone.

A child's cry for help, no better than beating on tin.

The End

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