Critic’s Plunder
Yes, it hurts, but what of love? From starry, doe-eyed martyrs
Your open wounds, they fester proud, no longer burdens bared
There to stew all fresh and new among the common slaughter
Standing loud, accusing crowds with other’s hearts compared
Words will strike on countless ears while minds, they soak in torment
Rippling fast to aeon’s end, these echoes ring of choices
So when that monster needs to sing, with wisdom long-gone dormant
Remember you are not alone, there’s other fears and voices
Try it pretty, try it subtle, give it thought and purpose
Fear of love will pull you down inside the dream you crave
Sounds of victor’s cheerful cries, I promise they’re not worthless
Boring? Maybe just to you, but I see hearts of brave
Phoenix risen, bright as sun, now soaring winter’s slumber
Open eyes revealing skies of boundless chance and freedom
Would you trade these selfish ways? Of critics seeking plunder?
Through losing self, embracing love — the lost, you gently lead them
