They Burnt It Down

Saving lives burnt into ink drawn notes,
With innocent lies that pierce numb skin.
Waiting in line; hearts in their throats.

Delicate horse hair, dragging on metal, devotes.
Sweet lulling chloroform, takes away their sins,
While he’s saving lives burnt into ink drawn notes.

Broken crystal, white fingers suddenly stroke,
New blood being drawn from the ink in his pen.
Still waiting in line, with hearts in their throats.

The constant bow sways, in perpetual hoax;
Directing glass shards, praying quietly, amen.
Who saves lives burnt into ink drawn notes?

Stumbling on sorrow, the cold string smokes,
With the tip of a weapon glaring back at them.
Who waits in line, with hearts in their throats?

Soon all that was sound will fade into then,
Doubt lost in peril that refused to grow thin.
He has saved lives burnt into ink drawn notes,
No one waiting in line, with hearts in their throats.