And, to a damned city with the Egypt and Bangorian Flux in lights Far off in the distance from the empty building's lights The look upon our faces When we found out the truth No one else is t i m e traveling I'll see you next week. The wickedness, of our burning tongues, Just to try to utter, "God." The emptiness of our eyes, Numb as the song seems petrified. The emptiness of his voice, When he confessed before his last song. Under the sun, and over the sky. I remember, Looking at green fields Just as green as they are now No one needed to complain About an overflow The greenest trees, And mountains ground Just gave us more room to grow. We didn't need an abused resource To even abuse, even more, abused. Unless this resource was pale-eyed. The reverence for sin, and love for hatred. The need for deafening words, and loud, hateful spit. The need for loud doors to be slammed And shaking keys To his empathy He has a drum set back home And always plays with four strings. Body, emotion, spirit, and soul. Through the sand . . . and through the trees.