Prison of Stone

Water Runs

There are those that fall where wild things fly,
Sometimes, as droplets, down from the sky.
Adorned in glittering rainbow dye,
Rippling currents are gleeful and spry.
The water runs while spirits are high.
Yet, under the skin, we heave a sigh,
Because vile ones flow when pain is nigh.
Love is the dew that no wealth can buy,
Though hearts would drip and drain as they try.
Echoes, they taunt us with one reply,
Remind us of how our truth falls shy.
Hear us begging our minds to comply—
To save our souls, and ourselves, deny?
Foolish puppets; the devil is sly!
He feeds from the blood, this blood of tie,
Licking the sores, then bidding goodbye.
Well, take these stones — and learn not to pry.
Never speak of the water we spy,
For stones can split, but stones never cry.
Who bears the right to question us why
We lose the spirit to save the eye?
Whether we yield or whether we try —
Oh, foolish pawns, the devil is wry! —
More water runs as innocents die.
Now under our skins, with shame, we lie,
Dwelling in tears that never will dry.