Bore after bore fell silent eventually
Abhor I do feel through my eyes
Gore and sore now abundantly plenty
Tore through clouds, wondrous skies
Despair in abundance appears all around
Where in the world has all our love gone
Stare into our abyss, and see it abound
There is no tomorrow, there is no dawn
An orange little ball,
Tattered and torn to bits,
No longer does it fly straight,
Its course lost, its path in fits,
An orange little ball,
Sad within its cracks and in its creases,
Faded bumps, its lost its grip,
It now falls to pieces,
Orange little ball,
Come to death smiling,
Never live just to die,
Happiness lives in and amidst the crying,
Orange little ball,
Wipe the tears away,
There is peace to be found,
In and amongst the fray.
She wore a black dress the virgin mother
unbearable beauty heart not like another;
blacker that the darkness of the night
tearful her eyes with forecasted fright.
Following her son through his journey
with a heavy cross on his way to Calvary;
she wore a black dress the mother of grief
sadness in her heart without relief.
She saw him victimized and persecuted
maltreated and brutally executed;
she wore a black dress under the cross
holding the son’s dead body weeping her loss.
Unbearable beauty heart not like another
dressed in black the blessed mother;
all she had left were the warm memories
they were factual acts not reveries.
Bingo halls and liquor stores,
what's happened to this land?
They call it a reservation,
a word you cannot stand.
The deep gut ache that you feel
as native blood boils deep inside
comes from where spirits roam free
with a fiercely eternal pride.
The seemingly tranquil sky
blooming with stars soon
pierced by a distant cry
that seems to swoon.
Beneath dense trees standing tall
to touch dark canvas painted
after dusk, prowls the epiphany of all
mother nature’s tainted.
The wise are often alone
and the dangerous hated,
but they express in moan
their solitude, once more grated.
Gradually their voices unite
in a song across the valley,
seeming to smite
all of innocence’s nest.
The moon in her splendour moves
to comfort the carnivores that commence,
and yet her beam soothes
not the beasts’ sense.
Torn between wrong and right
the moon spreads her swanlike wings amidst
the howls of her lovers, the kings of the night…
among the wolves in the mist.
Sorrow chokes sanity
in the brimstone fumes of Hell
that consumes all but memory
plastered against the walls of his cell.
My mind can't comprehend...
Perhaps he did wrong
or mercy he did not lend,
but here resides the angel of song.
His wings are torn,
tattered like his serenity
when he fell into heat's scorn.
Once he was beauty's epiphany.
The shofar's sound dwindled
to let screams take stage.
The music he once kindled
turned against him in bloody rage.
Yet he will rise once more.
The fallen creature in his cell
and will play a new music's score
telling of the angel in Hell.
It's not the same without you;
The days are rainy and the nights are blue.
My heart is crying and God is too,
But we are smiling, waiting here for you.
Once before, I had walked down a red carpeted isle
to glimpse your solemn face, a memory forever mine.
Why fate had to be so vile,
I still can’t comprehend, and yet here I stand before your shrine.
I had thought of the future, of what lay ahead,
and it stung. I would tread an isle again,
without you. My supposed joyful day would be my dread.
My white gown would bear sorrow’s stain.
Still, I could envision it: beside a rocky shore,
in the rain, ravished by the wind, beneath a veil of thunder…
Would you have thought it foolish lore?
This fantasy and chase after nature’s wonder?
NO! You would also have seen it, wouldn’t you?
The ocean rising violently like a stampede of wild mustangs,
the wind racing for its destination: adventures new,
the heaven’s shower baring its fangs?
Or would you have had me trod in a valley
under crystalline dusk and precipices,
appearing unbroken, all smiles and glee,
along the isle of roses?
the seduction of sweet solace
or the inarticulation of despair.
Uneasy 'neath the spell of peerless rapture,
false respite from the ravages of fear,
or defenseless and imperilled
by a sadness that is too extreme to bear.
...for all bi-polar sufferers.
Twenty brand new angels
arrived just yesterday.
Frightened and confused
they only wished to stay
with parents now left empty,
and shattered beyond belief.
Their babies’ precious little lives
stolen by a spineless thief
with evil in his heart,
and killing on his mind.
Dear God where are you now?
It’s getting hard to find
a reason for the carnage,
and the acts of the insane.
Can we still find eternal love
surrounded by such pain?
Now twenty brand new angels
who only yesterday did die,
and with them, too, the innocence.
Why, dear God, why?
for the Sandy Hook children. RIP.