With old rusted feathered claws as hands
He roams through the vast deserted lands
He holds visage low so he can't see
"all of the people staring at me"
His skin is thick but easy to tear
It's charred, burned and uneasy to wear
Looks up to heaven as if to say
"Why, oh Lord have you made me this way"
His touch is soft and made to infect
Voice for receipt but apt to reject
Eyes that see love in all these rare souls
Also finds dark in like minded holes
Choices now varied, embers to flame
Black to deep red, it's never the same
Built by the blood and flesh from his bone
Child at heart, in a soul fully grown
Eager to fly and eager to rest
Eager to plant what flows from his chest
So all inside, from black went to white
If it goes dark, all colors switch right
Lines in his hands, the same on his face
Hiding so much, those lines have found place
Lines forming roads for years yet to grow
Monster rose up to let it all go...
~Moses Apollo
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