He stands in all of mans intelligence
but it serves only as a puddle he's pressed against.
For this man is as fickle
as the rain that trickles
gently down his cheeks
slowly caressing before it leaves.
He fallows,yes he fallows
only those whom are hallow.

"Popularity" acting only as a cloning system,
while his eyes remain blood shot only from a stare In sweet care to master imitation
dare I say..."let the cloning begin."
This is our gun ladies and gentlemen, the loaded gun we hold against
the head of individuality and indolence.
When our fads serve only as an injection into the every voices in your head
Down into every cell in your skin,shaping our souls to the very figure required to fit in.

Dare this man take a step outside of our narrow box
see what lays behind the doors this society blocks
for with a life of nothing.
Fear and happiness are pointless
because we serve only as droids with no point of existence..
His steps wobbly but strong and his breaths week but deep.
His heart beat serves as the beat of the little drummer boy.
For this man demands to be more then just a object humanity uses as a toy.
With the holy grail lays buried in our own betrayal
Within his hands it is held
breaking threw the shell that in which he was gripped.
His independence acts as Jesus' blood upon his very lips
for this is the plot the steps to immortality
Without the eternal death of our society.
Christian purity, is found in the fresh breath he breathes

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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