Screaming off the Cliff

We're All Just Stories

We're all just stories in the end;

the passing fancy of an artist's hand.

We're drawn on crumpled parchment, then

we walk and dream upon this land.

We're all just ghosts floating around,

Memories, death and the soon to come.

Past, present and future be damned.

We're as fleeting, as soft as a guitar strum.

We're all just humans in the world.

Full of love and hate and lust.

A spark of a man's imagination unfurled,

A remembrance - a shadow, of angel's dust.

We're all just nothing, in the end.

Just memories, just stories thought up by He,

Who thought an angel to us He would send,

Would make us good. Would make us free.

But we are struck with mortal sin.

Of hate and vengence, jealousy and love.

Even an angel cannot heal or thin

The hate we feel for He above.

Because we're all just stories in the end,

Just passing works of an artist's hand.

A figment of imagined trend,

Drawn and placed upon this land.