They Poem by Aram Stefanian

The freaky visions of the future are out of left field:
In the land of the living dead they try to turn back time.
An endless wait is the reason they keep their eyes peeled.
The same wall those helpless ghosts every hour climb,
Missing love, good ole days, and the smell of house paint.
No one told them before that the mistakes could be fatal:
It is already too late for one trying to pretend to be a saint,
And they wonder if their injuries were acquired or natal.
In the gloomy domain where the angels don't ever fly
They feel like desolate caged birds with clipped wings.
Abandoned luckless spirits that are apples of no one's eye,
Around one another they attempt in vain to run rings.