When the guns go silent
God cannot intervene in sovereignty
and the boy will plead no innocence.
Seedlings cannot control the wind,
in birth the Oak has called their name
a command from the forest unseen.
A biblical sandstorm unleashed by unworthy souls
Will scatter this seed
that a millennium of kings could not see.
Time demands the old to look away
For Medusa’s face will give the peace.
Hope now resides in young men’s eyes
and the currency at stake is dreams.
These are the orders of man.
As the desert celebrates the rain with life
and the Eskimo gives reverence to flesh.
That is the natural dignity of things
It was this harmony that created the ark,
a speck of light in the darkness
that gives meaning to the stars above.
But war is the Cancer unseen
flowing in the veins of weeds with mortal power.
Weeds whose future is locked in vaults unseen
hypnotised by the allure of possession
hiding their gluttony in papers power.
A confession that only the executor will see.
The poor will be tried in combat,
existence will see them fall.
To defend history with mothers child,
and use our great Cities to forge
the end with steel and bullet.
All bought with Slaver’s wealth and empire.
Actions that will tempt the heavens
with sparks that ricochet off the anvil of God.
So even the lost alien observer
will feel this pain of mankind.
These seedlings cropped by lawnmowers damned
Scything through the spirit of man.
And perhaps the crying mother will find comfort
that the greed that underpins all wars,
will see this Judas priest .
This paper with devils desire
that feeds a global asylum,
in cubicles of generic concrete
waiting for the illusive pension from life.
Will find the ark that prophets seek.
A truth that transcends all religion.
Heaven declines your currency
wealth is a mortal thing
your fee is to the earth
and that is the remembrance of you.
The cry of the swift
gives Gods speed to assassins flight.
A mirage of summer
that avoids the artists brush.
Natures fly has devoured this sin of man
and sacrifice is given,
to the voyagers of the sky
converting the souls of men to flight.
And perhaps in this act ,
humanity will find redemption.
And the boys that died unseen
will finally see the beauty of creation,
high above the pain below.
Screaming on the wings of freedom
A truth reserved for God
and a dead boy’s dream.
Copyright © steven cooke | Year Posted 2016