Stumbling Along the Road Called Life

[Shadow of the Butterfly]

The whispers of the dead

Echo through the lips of the living

We think we know what we don't

And feign attempts of ideas giving

 

Walking in footsteps predestined to stumble

Spouting off on soap-boxes steep

We trip and fall

Grasping at straws to keep

 

When black has turned white

and inside is out

New ideas may be forth-coming

Though guised in self-doubt

 

The whispers of the livng

Can no longer be heard well

At heaven's upheavel

Turning Terra to Hell