Crystal clear skies,
her whistle disappeared with wishful signs.
Blissful tears from crippled eyes,
pistol fears from events in the night.
Working class hero,
burning the past, learning that any hope
squirming in glass, once carried to a burial
- hurried to ask for a miracle.
Below shooting stars,
pushing cars instead of pulling Mars.
Curing scars -
luring the dark into worried hearts.
A cashier in daylight,
the stepping stool who isn't paid right.
Pressing through his own grave sight,
left with rules he'd rather escape by.
Pushed to the edge,
bullshit led to a culprit guess.
Pulled from his head,
full of hatred and shunned from death.
Ten minutes to closing,
his image was lifted from coping.
He sits in the crimson - hoping,
listen to the mission and go free.
"Get down on the ground, NOW!"
He pulls out the weapon of choice,
"put all the money in this pouch!"
not a soul makes a noise.
He knows he'll break,
but then tastes blood.
His bones begin to ache,
- he's been shot in the gut.
We cannot do everything at once,
but can do something at once.
When patience turns into a burden,
we lose sight of what we've become.
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