Our Father, Premonition

How much can a broken man take,

swinged away by a low tide in the stream?

Mesmerized by the bottom to leave,

too close to be swallowed by the deep.

"Sorrow makes us all children again." -

as (the) lack of compassion wants to remain,

nostalgia just offers a spade and a chain.

The whole world is painted in black -

the record skips to remind you all you had,

where scratches mark the surface,

just follow the noise of the purpose.

What needs to happen to break a man,

who feels an urge in the stains of his hands?

Premonition raised us in the room of upheaval,

But when we stick as a pack they treat us half-equal.

Silence and doubts are the worst to advise,

let the weak and the dumb seek for their demise,

Searching for answers, accepting lies.

The more they swallow the less they care,

(while) these cities were built on our elders' despair,

these buildings and bullet holes became our altair,

but prayers will not help us,

and the mass just feeds our flame.

What needs to happen to stick together in times like these,

to set an alarm that rings for the sacrificial sheep?

How many times must we become the ones

Will we gather to break this cycle?

Or our father, premonition becomes our rival?