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// six 
// Story: Phantom Limb 
// by The Red Parade 
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When the sky turns from clear to ash

And the sun fades to a distant memory

Will the birds appear in the morning?

When one cuts off an arm

(Or a leg, or a wing)

Why does it feel as if it is still there?

When our fields become malls and the grass becomes roads

And rivers turn dry and clouds turn to fog,

Can we still call our world the same?

When tomorrow fails to be a guarantee

And change becomes impossible,

Will we still feel within that somehow,

That old part of us

Is still there?

Lopped off at the limb

But somehow, not forgotten?