You
were free, released this time with gentle hands
Allowed,
for once, to offer the help needed to change a tune
But
these same church bells are now churning,
Wind
this time, in fine crippling blasts,
Where
once was hot and dead and buried.
Drifts
slowly.
But
don’t you feel it? The summer wisper of
trees nearing?
We
will hear it for you, sifting down
We are
at war with ourselves,
In
ships with painted sails.
Why
would you paint the sails?
The dreadful
machine, it must start once again
Needing
human cogs by which to run, turn turn it’s gears on mortal flesh
The
kind that wants to run,
The
omen in the darkness,
Not
this – anything else but the shattered lives,
The
hardening of fists and the miscommunication of desire.
In
such gasps of life, we found a second beauty, another hate
Another
hate
So
many larities similar, an echo to deceive
But
the wind through the bark, it eases
The
river stays its own course for a change
If for
a little while more, down,
out,
flung somewhere into the sea
Far
beyond, where all things go in time
This,
a haunted place, but still so beautiful.
omen. That Woman. The way she watches her hands,
Opening,
folding, hoping for someplace to rest.
Rest now, for morning
comes.
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