Two silent soldiers in arms and in sounds
Stood next to each other exchanging slurs
And friendly stabs to the growing gut,
But no one can tell when the other is serious.
Which one is a prophet? Which one is a fool?
If claiming the future makes you a fraud
Then they both killed for money just in
Slightly different ways, ensuring they got paid.
The one that sees himself as the flowering kind
Sits and sucks in death with a slightly bended wrist,
Pondering and laughing about how they never kissed
Until their skin had peeled back to show a foolish grin.
The other sees himself on a high and lofty cloud
In a heaven that rewards theft with eternal life.
But the cloud is tied to a blond haired, blue eyed,
Wannabe god that screams at him to come down.
Perhaps in all the battles won and lost together
They never had time to hear the truth over
The noise of an outdated melody;
The real truth is only for one to see.
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