Guns. Liars. Blood.
War gets harsher,
A child's sock lies beneathe the collapsed orphanage,
It's singed at the edges with crimson blood staining its innocence.
The earth gets warmer,
A young polar bear cries out for the family it has lost,
He searches for a place where the ice is still cold.
Society gets crueller,
A teenager falls onto the bathroom floor in uncontrollable sobs,
She is searching for an escape from the pain.
The earth's self esteem is dangerously low.
It is because it's most advanced species is killing it.
Amidst our woods they lived quite free
most beautiful for all to see,
collecting nuts their only need
to help provide a winter's feed.
But now their falling numbers prove
the threat to woodland and their food
as roads and buildings rob their land
and nature takes a crueller hand.
A cousin grey, who's not so shy,
now steals their dwindling food supply
and fighting fiercely for their home
gives our red friends no place to roam.
Less we provide them room to play
extinction is the price they'll pay.
Ivor G Davies
The poet says that war is a wasteland.
But there is a crueller breeding.
Where those who drink coffee
And breathe the secondary smoke of their lovers
And drink the Scottish honeyed poison
And those who make slavish mortgage payments
And chase the tinselled glory of the cup
Or the greasy position
Or the fickle adulation,
Waste away in their own self.
Where the innocence of the childish
And the trust of the good man
And the naturalness of a pure women
Is hijacked by their sin nature.
The playground of the cheerful dying
is found in the skeptic of the extra dimension
who says seeing is believing;
those who are blinded by unbelief of truth.
The wasteland of the Adam nature separates death from life:
What is true from the truth,
The game from its purpose,
The mask from the face,
Tradition from it's reason,
Oil from water,
Salt from pepper,
Heaven from Earth.
Nothing eternally remains there
Nothing spiritually remains there
Only an inhabitanted wilderness
Where the heat breeds the life that rots.
What a waste.
The Tyrant
How cruel is love:
That it might entice a statue ,
Then forsake it when it move.
That it might crown a man Emperor,
Then banish him from his kingdom.
That it might deliver a man from the gallows,
Only to have him murdered by its own hand.
Oy vey, Of all the tyrants known to man,
There is none crueller then unrequited love.
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