Watershed

My voice rises high above,
dark mornings in ritualized labor,
gonna let the Lord be heard so praised,
because I’ve had enough of her life as well,
since we need to figure our mistakes,
far down about somebody else’s patched knees,
now mightily stripping machinery’s fierce gears,
all over this noisy factory floor.

Primary colors form a real nice durag,
sopping up blood, snot, and crass vanity,
items meaning is quite pretentious,
a heart full of love, compassion, and kindness,
lining perfect that final bullet in your rifle,
below a lumpy crunching carpet,
following to the fuming whipping boy outside,
readily fastening his gloves another time.

Blue represents their muscle tissue while leaving,
white is those sheets tight on static heads,
and red easily trails around everyone’s footprints,
obviously including no special wrecking ball,
led way back for an unplanned voyage,
running across wholly different blurred streets,
then hell under steel meets its fiery collision,
not even bothering a pull from the curb to escape.