He walks on society’s razor edge
Where genius and madness are purple shades
And that razor cuts him feet to head
To splatter red blood as paint on a page.
And this blood, like Able’s cries out to God
“Lord, bring back your yellow flowers of hope
For green grass withers and proves itself fraud
Rising up from the orange embers as smoke.
He reaches to Heaven for something true
A bite of manna so we can be clean
And somewhere beyond the sky so blue
Are the visions of God that he has seen.
But just like the prophets that came before
He’s crucified, stabbed, or stoned on the floor.
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