Burdens lift to page as the mind travels from here to there
In the shell of struggle feel me in the forest looking for the hare
Ripple of light takes the inside of soul and cleans it for the lost host
In the silence see me fighting the need to succeed carrying the ghost
As the pen goes dry I hear old voices calling me from past written well
Escape they will from branded design burned deep in me the writer's hell

Yellow page done, some come to review, most to dine, on words, in line.
Banner reads, Journalist have died, truth only lies in dead lines, more sales.
Sweet young things left to the street, troops leave in the pages live TV war ugly
Sell the blood, terror is internal, watch it live, count the dead, wanted price per head
Not by the word anymore, or the column, above the fold, banner above the screen deft
Real live news footage from the reality show going live everyday on the electrons dancing

Change is the gift of time and McDonald's