Month: November 2018

Oh my brother
who held the lamp
to my feet,
I shall follow
your song in my
darkness bleak,
yet in that tune
once sung for me
am I complete.

I sing you a song and write these silent words
My quill, dipped in an unpopular ink, unheard,
The slow over turning of the light preferred.

The black clock ticks in time with our shallow hearts
In these times of disregard we wear garments dark
The millstone around our necks sets us apart.

It was an horrendous crime, grotesque and vile
Hammered out in those chambers while we slept awhile
The darkness returns with a murderous smile.

I write words deep and dark, stained with blood and tears
You put your fingers in your useless eyes and ears
I thought I was talking to someone who cares.

I sing you a song about all things sweet
Like love and sunshine and friends dancing in the street
And you wave and cheer and you feel so complete.

These sleepless nights
and the constant rain,
the waves pushing against the shore,
the work that is still to be done;
this is pouring time into a bag with holes,
nothing ever stops.

The touch of sun
on my skin,
the rain
soaking my hair,
my eyes
made tears by the wind;
blue lips,
white snow,
hallowed place,
this to be alive –
gratitude my breath.

How long will the killing last,
the child asked,
how long will it be until I see
the stars and feel the fire
in my beating heart?
Forever and never,
they answered it.

A thread of cloth,
woven in the throw
of the rolling dice,
cuts a thin red line
across the lie
of our idolatry.