When we throw it down.
We plead for the crown.
Beg forgiveness from a heart.
Rather than turn toward whats dark.
But if you lie here in wait.
Passionless souls will take,
Split the sun and claim.
What lies within your fame.
Employed by harsh movements.
Lacking new improvements.
Fashioned from clay obsolence.
Vain in a forced conscience.
Barreled down a ‘fall.
Hear nothing but this call.
While you pick at fruit and see.
This is the end, you brought it to be.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 