Haunted

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Washing his hands in the dead of the night
To rinse away shades of red, blue and white
He tries denying, he tries counting sheep
But he counts them lying in a line as he sleeps

But you’ve got what you want
How many is enough
But you’ve got what you want
How many is too much
But you’ve got what you want
How many more
But you’ve got what you want
How many at war

Serotonin won’t wash the memory
Burning faces leaving their legacy
Another apocalyptic vision as he lies
His bed is his grave as he waits for sunrise
He hopes for light in his prison as he prays
He hopes the night in his soul will wash away