Okay, so it's written to be a song, but...yes.
Here it is:
|| Gray. Requiem ||
What are we? But keys on the piano,
Pushed down, unable to say no.
Composing the songs we're told to play,
Weathered white backs, crippled and gray.
Our destiny's laid out, like a requiem tune,
They close the casket, our melodic tomb.
Mould dripping on our catacomb,
We all blend into Gray...
Everything's always so black and white,
Written in Ivory, for what left is there to fight?
We show Them our throats, submit, bow,
They press us, can't resist, we'll utter a death-growl
Our usefulness served, as if this is what we deserve.
We lie there in rows,
Taking their blows.
Shrouded in their darkness, Blinded by Their light.
Stripped of all our color,
Naught left but Black and White...no hope in sight...
Our destiny's laid out, like a requiem tune,
They close the casket, our melodic tomb.
Mould dripping on our catacomb,
We all blend into Gray,
Slumping to the Hand of the Godly Distortion (tion sounding line 'shone')
Sculpted from anemic Clay.
But no, we will not fall for you,
We can die fine by ourselves.
So listen as we prick the strings
To the harps of our personal Hells.
Until that day, though,
We sleep in this ashen snow,
Listening to the harsh wind blow,
Of a better world we'll never know.
At a broken moon we will crow,
Of a better world we'll never know...
~Fin
Normal User
Normal User
Normal User