Hearts parched, flying through the dry grass.
Soul wades through Mondays soup.
Todays goal, get to the other side.
But he cries, and he cries.
She knows hes just another,
Grainy brick, in her textured wall.
She wears her heart, wannabe
Crochet, warm earthly shawl.
Her soul glides through Mondays soup.
But she cries and she cries.
Time is ticking.
Markets are for the people.
Forbidden fruits are purchased early,
In the name of the peoples steeple.
Written By Benjamin W Campbell
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