Bleeding hands around a sphere
Crushing armies of ten thousand
End the greed, end the lust
For thee shall have none to trust
Tell the choir so all should sing
The melody of grieving men
Torturous lullaby of broken lives
Tragedies to thee I give
What was coming
YOU ARE READING
The brain is a machine
PoetryThe brain is a machine when fed creativity Let it paint us a picture
