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.