Dead works

By Michael   

Cold callused and clean
Cold callused and clean to me
Life on the blindside of being
Cold callused and clean

Clinging to memories past
Clinching to portions as if they could last
And I found where nostalgia was dashed
Just elongates the gap of my clarity's map

Machine keeps on turing within
The gears keep on churning that spin in the head
The sum of my fears are pretend
The cost is the pretense of which there's no end

Cold callused and clean
Cold callused and clean to me
Life on the inside of grief
Cold callused and clean

Counting the days with short wrists
Counting the times that my hand made a fist
My ambitions were all too remiss
And the rigid repose served my seared consciousness

Wander and walk unconcerned
Manage the bridges that truth should have burned
Saying when oh Lord when will I learn
That the works of my flesh are but kindle in erns

Cold Callused and Clean
Cold callused and clean to me
Faith without a prince or a peace
Cold callused deceased

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This Poems Story

Faith without works is dead just as works without faith. Why do we do the things we do and for whom do their actions promote?