a little Xtra

All is quiet on the eastern front.

The mind is a fickle thing
It's restless, always craving, never satisfied.
It finds fault with everything it's presented
And when that object finally steals away,
the mind follows,
Pleading, wanting, crying.
But all that echoes through the hills is the voice of Pain.
It sings a soft, haunting aria,
but Pain iz too much to bear,
The mind begs for Pain to go away,
It shouts, it yells, it screams.
It thrashes and lashes out.
It's falls back on pure survival instinct.

And so all falls silent on the eastern front.
Not a word, not a sound,
The mind tosses and turns,
it wanders through the desolate silence,
relieved to hear the deafening silence,
but yet secretly hoping that the uneasy quiet will be broken,


But all is still quiet on the eastern front.
The mind sits perched on dune,
and waits.
For it knows that it will hear the sound of laughter once again,
echoing over the furthest hill.
And in that knowledge that happiness has been found,
It rejoices.

The dawn of healing will come.
It juz takes time