Think of Things That Taste Like Pride...

Okay, so I wanted to use that idea from Michael's post, and this is what I came up with. Tell me what you think!

Fashioned of a finer gold
we are the hands that will not fold
Our fingers dance with misery
to music that we cannot see
We grieve over our sins' remains
in valleys flooded by the rains
but water that comes crashing down
is muddy, and it makes us drown
Our lips, they bear the taste of pride
so sweetly sick, our thoughts collide
and soon our lust for something true
is death that we ourselves imbue

And I don't feel like updating again, so here's an edit. I wrote this on the fly, but I quite like it

Behold her
in the light of reality
She is not the dove that's
taken flight
nor the rainbow
fifteen miles
from the storm
Rather, she is the
word 'home' upon a
lonely beak,
a glimmering
gold horizon
peeking through a
shattered sky