Doubtful Authenticity

What if the canyons that ran on our hands

Were scars from the crusades we never fought?

And due to the restraints of our commands

We never dared explore what we ought not.

 

But since we were unaware of the pain

We carried onto build create, and dream.

The canvases where our wounds do remain

Form mountains, flowers, valleys, skies and streams.

 

It seems as though our instincts may be right

Until the mountains spew hot, burning fires.

The flowers weep, the skies are bruised with night;

Valleys and streams once something to admire.

 

Another cut to add to the regret.

Maybe the orders are our only threat.

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