Rare, but there.
Deep from within
Few times are they seen,
Because of the pain he feels,
Inside he’s profoundly ill…
Quiet but loud
He slowly weeps.

If ever revealed
One is crowned a lapwing.
A dead man walks,
Now a sleepless corpse.
That’s what they symbolise.
If only there was a heart he could borrow.
Maybe he might be optimistic about tomorrow.

Anything to demulcent the suffering
He would use to excide the pain.
But oh lord, can anything ever erase a man’s pain?
Rushing in his veins,
Warm blood so cold, he could take a life.
Whose if not his own?

Whenever they fall on the ground,
No one wishes to be around.
It’s seemingly inexplicable.
What’s a man without his pride?
He’s a man without a bride.
Who ever said a man doesn’t cry?