Just like a vagabond I wander through this field. many years of hard labor still no crops I yield.
The yellow belly like the wheat.
Left in my own defeat.
No master.
No direction.
Some call this natural selection.
My katana still sheathed.
In my own sorrow I seethed.
Like the blade that rust in the blood of those I never called my enemy.
Who is he?
Who is I?
But a vagabond that wanders. Head stuck in the sky And he wonders What is truth and what is lie.
Confused.
Consumed.
By his own desire. Yet what he wants he doesn't know.
All that is assured is that he is just like his father.
No more than a liar.
Those play music right?
Or did he misunderstand that meaning as well?
He is not well.
He cannot give the water of life. His reservoir has run dry. He now fears that he may die.
All his thoughts are underhand
Under the table yet he demands answers to questions he can't even form.
Can a boy born a liar be reformed?
Is it genetic?
In his DNA?
Or is he generic, only dictated by Generational curses.
But damn those questions he just repeats the verses.
In his headspace.
Where he'd just pace the burning fields he set to fire.
When will he learn that he can turn over a new leaf?
Will it be before the forest burns along with all the trees?
Has he thrown away his only chance To simply dance In the mayhem he has made?
The village looks on dismayed
While his father seems displeased that his sons mentally diseased.
Yet that boy wonders to himself why the opinion of someone who he never mattered to
dictates what he's supposed to do.
So he climbs the ladder.
Will it reach to heaven or fall to hell?
He prays it's not the latter but He is used to his dreams being what shatter.
A boy forced to be a warrior.
Who could have seen the only exit at the end of the corridor That they sent him down
doomed to fail?
Yet he made it through.
Finding out step by step what he must do after being left a vagabond who wanders through the field trying now to do no more than heal.
It was all a trial.
a tribulation.
So this boy could form his own nation.
Thanks to the King who sits on the throne.
The one who will call him home.
The vagabond found a master.
His honor now matters.
He's shown it wasn't all disaster.
For with the fire came fertile soils.
For him to reap the spoils.
Which he deserved for his toils.
