Marching Little Men


Feel them under the surface
the little men
marching through these walls.
Can you hear their battle cries
echoing countless times?

Hold your hand to me
count the veins and arteries
Hold yourself to me
feel the banging artillery

Can you hear them,
over the volume of the day?
Even here where life fades away,
can you hear their battle cry?

These marching little men
don’t distinguish the living for the dead.

Feel them under the surface
fight against them all
There is no divide in healthy life
and the blight of the fall
There is no divide in what is
and what could be

Hold your hand to me
count the veins and arteries
Hold yourself to me
feel the banging artillery

Can’t you see the rhythm
pounding away,
pound my life away?
Can’t you see the poison
dripping into me,
drowning my life away?

These marching little men
don’t distinguish the living for the dead.
Just hold my hand,
even as we pray for a better day.

Just hold your hand to me
over the pounding battle cry,
and pray I wake instead
of the death that reigns inside.
Hold yourself to me
over the banging artillery,
and let in the dawn
bring me back to the way.

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