Midas
Kings Midas was lucky,
With his fingers of gold.
He kept things so pure-
They never grew old.
These weathered hands
Turn all into dust.
They degrade the ones
I’m supposed to trust.
Is it better to live life
Without the slightest touch.
Should I remove these hands
Or live life in a hutch
I’m lost in a sandstorm
I can barely breathe
There’s dust in my lungs,
And there’s black in the trees.
I’m pulsing with sorrow,
I’ve spread this disease.
I should have just left you,
With your lovely caprice.
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