Children Of Saturdays Sorrow

 Twisted limbs hurled against ridged wall

Shattered minds render the reapers call.

Children of Saturdays sorrow slowly roast and burn,

Sweet smell of flesh released as the war machine turns.

White hot nights illuminate a weeping sky,

while nations fall prey to the days of our time.

The laughing lords lounge beneath a veil of indiscretion

giving forth their illusions unto the masses in search of direction.

Peace, peace they say, peace is on the way,

Just look and see…just follow me,

And I will bring you into your sanctified day.

Aye, but all lies they are… all lies,

Black vile lies, ripe with serpentine venom.

Words of unholy truth, predestined only to deceive,

meant to cause irrational favor for the black masses to believe.

Oh sweet smell of flesh…

In sorrows burn…

Death begets death

As the war machine continues to turn.

J. Allen Wilson © 2005