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Description
There wasn’t a day, a day in my life
When I couldn’t find a tool of hardship, of strife
To cut and snip away the pieces,
Mold the shapes and iron the creases
Of every sense I simply could contain
Without an opposite taste of bitter pain
Tastes like cranberries, dried rough and sour
Feelings of needles, piercing me on the hour
Smells that clean away at some nostalgic recall
Sounds from hell of twisted screams in a squall
And now that all those days of life are gone
What I would endure to be anything but a pawn
To gain the sight I could not use
In pure life with such a short fuse
Which blew up my world, made of some half-molded figure
To show me the truth, the player with the trigger
He was just an old man, playing with lives upon a chessboard
Some lives upon it were knights, shielded with but a broadsword
And all I can do now is watch with the one sense I lacked
Watch the other pawns as their armor has slowly cracked
Just as mine did when I was full of life
Armed with four senses and a head full of strife