Moving Van's
And covering mother
With her bath robe
Passed out on the couch
Go beyond the night
And the true meaning of love
Cover her up starting at the exposed feet
That have tread you to bed
Up and down the stairs
The carpets have shed
And smell so familiar
Like childhood blanket's
Every memory
That has ever rocked you to sleep
Lives a thousand grains
Of sand on a wind
Passing by your bedroom windows
Opening up to blistering summer's
The likes of which
Time ticks on noisy seconds
We seek when
Day's are dark
And the park tree's
Are blowing leaves
Into Autumnal street's
Full of Cars
And recycling bin's
To be collected
In the morning
When dreams have settled
Like our imperfections
And recollection
Of all our yesterday's
And tomorrow's
Such is our eloquent sorrow
Such is the machine driven stitch
That Pierce's the cloth
Of robes
Bound for the emperor's new clothes
Purple and silken
In blood diamonds
And Gold
Self manipulated.
Down to the T inside my bones.
Written in the dust.
With the machine driven by War.
Blood must be spilled.
Screams must be filled.
Mr. Money and Mr. Hide.
With excessive dollars that are
being tilled.
Do you care.
And by change, if you do not.
Then who?
Actually does.
Fatherless children.
Mothers which lost their sons.
Widow makers under the black
night.
One that shines without a moon.
While the peace lovers with the
tint for hate.
Sleep innocently.
Sleep quietly.
In the safe environment.
Sometimes even underground.
Inside the snakes living room.
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