everyone is dead

the wars upon the land
had crawled ever closer
the distance from implosion
grew as thin as the skin
of those worn down
once tall, strong, historic

they had crawled ever so slowly
harsh claws
agony as they went
down the artists throat
words fell upon brazen vocal chords
consumed by the hunger of war
his voice, fallen
like sweet angels forgotten

the wars they took his laughter's life
but his hands they knew not death
they played the strings
they sang his song
the wrote his passage
they became his lungs
they gave us gifts

his words too absent to give
so he played us poetry
he dare'nt speak of
in quite so certain terms
so he played for us
the sounds of life
the haunt of war
that we might see
what we are dying for

every one is dead
and no one knows anything
and the keys to the kingdom
lie with the monster
as he fights his savage

we are our brother's reaper,
our mother's shame,

and as for our sisters,

there is only silence.

your city

i could be your city
you look upon from the sky
through my every pathway
you're free to wander
the keys are yours to throw away
i hope you'll be safe
where streets aren't lit
your soul more than compensates
for the darkness I left behind
in the shade of lost homes
and buildings drawn in confusion
roads paved in guilt
by yesterdays innocent youth
and today's wayfaring man
discover all you wish
so go on
'til your soles ache of love
but leave some time for rest
your head on my shoulder
to watch the sun return home
as we grow a day older

Better in Tune With the Infinite

more than mere reaction
something
that encompasses yesterday
compounds the present
and screams the future
eternity is no far cry
for those who see in infinities

behaviour laden in silk
itself shrouded in mystery
with a legacy of history
hurried footsteps t'ward paradise
at Mother's feet
tear ducts follow the suit of a kindred spirit

sacrifice at the plea of companions
closed eyes through the gale
a cut against the grain
words forged that imprint the scale
more than just ink on a page
the gravitas of forever.
to hear the self cry
lama sabachtani
to rise above.

a delicate touch to agony
an embrace that painted home
in the heart of a torn soul

and of course to Love
as if you hadn't already
with a truth that turns the storm tranquil
warm hands that open eyes
to the height of intimate
and bring oneself, and a beloved
better in tune
with the infinite