Written by: David Smalling

They say that I write dark things
That I do not laugh again
That my words are like crows wings
And metaphors Noah's rain
They say my meanings blot the sun
There is no dance on the page
And so they believe that having fun
Means ignorance must be on stage.

These are days dark, my blind dear
The world has changed is changing still
What was dew is now the tear
Of forests dead before they are killed
Of seas stagnant and melting poles
While we breathe poison in the air
Seasons and genders switched in roles
Merely trip the meter of fear.

My page is my canvas I write
What see, the sun shredding earth
To dust, and crumbled stalagmite 
Our bones, blown in a dusty spurt
And from the cathedral singing
Comes, a papal caravan of dreams
You are at the start, I at the ending
Of time's delicious little schemes