nothing good can grow in the wasteland
where weeds have choked the sky,
stretching out to forge a lie
that yes, upon sand,
upon my own plans,
i can fly.
nothing good can grow in the wasteland,
too far i have tilled, only to look at
ashes left behind.
the brushes i paint with
are strokes of coal
that leave chaos behind.
nothing good can grow in the wasteland,
i water with poison,
yet reap with eager hunger.
though my fruits they kill me,
i would rather my breath become air
than have it give more life to this death.
nothing good can grow in the wasteland,
unless You say it can.
let the clay remain with my Potter
be still! greedy hands you fidget in vain.
the Water Forever has come to bring
life, a song of Love He sings,
be still, eager one;
only in His hands,
can something good grow out of this wasteland.
butwhoeverdrinks 