-Sandstone-

            Every little thought,
            from the children of the land,
            every word is caught,
            Everything is sand.
            For every act impeached,
            So no one makes a stand,
            the muse's hall is breached.
            Everything is sand.
            It sweeps into your eyes,
            It coats your bloody teeth,
            It's coming from the skies.
            It's filling your with grief.
            It's from the sand you're born,
            And to the sand you go,
            Like a jaded Screaming horn,
            But sand silences like snow.
            The Sin and Din of war,
            The devil's marching band.
            The whimper of the whore,
            Everything is sand.
            It scratches up your eyes,
            It grates between your teeth.
            Its pain makes your dispise,
            Its pain gives your belief.
            The Mother's loving words.
            The victim takes a stand.
            We all try to run in herds,
            But everything is sand.
            The mastery of the art,
            The Beauty of the eye,
            The anticipated start,
            But Even roses all will die.
            Every Monstrous thought,
            >From the dusters of the land,
            Every sight is bought,
            Everything is sand.
            Every thought betrayed,
            Faded in a dune.
            Every mind is frayed,
            With the gristle of the moon.
            Every student taught,
            Every word unlearned,
            Every truth is fought,
            Every moment earned.
            Every Quenching thirst.
            The desert's movement planned,
            The future's turned for worst.
            Everything is sand.
            Every friend misled,
            Every word a lie,
            Everything is dead,
            Because everything must die.
            Every right is gained,
            Every moment Earned,
            Every vision pained,
            Every book is burned.
            Thinking of the past,
            The burning of the land,
            The heat turns it to glass,
            but everything is sand.

Ben's other works