Weeds are pulled to save the crop,
But what of when the crops become weeds?
Do we praise the weeds as though they are crops?
And pull what crops remain?

Cold

Cold is the flesh of one departed
But not forgotten, not alone
Their name is lost but their deed remembered
Cold is the flesh, cold like stone

Hard

Hard was the task of those departed
To give all, and remain unknown
But they did not falter, remained unyielding
Hard are the features on a face of stone

Strong

Strong were the spirits of those departed
Even when lead tore flesh from bone
They marched as ever for king and country
Strong were the beats of their hearts of stone.

Proud

Proud are we to have come to know them
The men and women who call this land home
Ever defiant, ever courageous.
Proud am I of this my land of stone.

the sound echos far
gas escaping, gas returning
far through an empty hall
liquid flowing, pistons pumping
far across this barren land
wheels turning, clockwork whirring
and yet none hear, none at all

for none settle in this land
wind howling, wind moaning
at least none that live, none that feel
trees burning, dust storming
for all that lives was brushed aside
beauty fading, city's falling
to make way for a legacy of concrete and steel

A Sign

In the dark
there sits a Boy
and before him, the world.

“What to do
With all this time?”
He wonders to himself.

In a shadow
there sits a man
and before him, the world.

“oh, dear father
give me a sign!”
He pleads with the sky.

Beneath the branches
Of an apple tree.
A grave without a stone.

And before it
The whole wide world.
Upon the horizon, a star.