whats on my mind at the graces
he smiles,he laughs and cracks a joke but his eyes have wounds that self healed knowing better of his people,the country he helped build from ship to factory, stadium to palace all took a sip from his chalice ,demeaning his home that holy steeple, his beacon in the mist,his team on his wrist,all his conflicts in the young mans antics,every man hes took out with his fist,he felt guilty just a bit,as all thats not missed because inside he was a passive twist,his darling he first kissed had worn out but mad eyes he cherished a social anarchic,inside like left by the way side,not to blunder upon,but to meet by the riverside,black and choppy just his cup of coffee,as he fights to be near her hand,a magic on demand,a secret supernatural command,black and white spirits from another place would share a familiar face if he could only understand that angels banned progression if one has no love or mighty grace written in the fabric,souls once lost now found,the creative ancestors of his home town for which he would give his life for that wisdom of time,not to let his time pass,but to have acknolagement if not only a bit of appreciation that he exists in that place he calls home.
