mass-a poem by me. OMG

[Mannequin]

Painted fingers
press on nails
bleeding fingers
tell tall tales.

Rhyming chirps
of crying birds;
twisted beaks
cry soft words.

Tunneling filter
of malignant truth
this twirling spiral
is ending our youth.

Winter season
come to pass
we're still here
the mediocre mass.

[Bobby]

I like it very much. The only thing I don't really get is the last line.

[Sugaree]

It sounds like something to do with relgion.

is that it? Cause that's the only mass I know or it could be refering to an unstable crowd

[western ninja]

I think he's talking about the human race as a group?