Thy heads be kept higher,
Ye forgotten vagabonds,
thou not be drowning in
paper flowing through the air,
for thy eyes see no green
but in the grass stains on thy jeans.

Thy minds be kept cleaner,
Ye forgotten vagabonds,
thou not mind thy own stench,
Nye, ye only smell the toxic crowds
of rapacious men who step on thy feet
throwing cold copper hail stones pressed with a dead man's pompous glare.
All ye common folk, thou not hear our fife hiss and whistle?
Let its melody awaken you from thy ignorant trance.

Keep marching along,
Ye forgotten vagabonds,
let thy tune clear the ears of our cracked streets,
our broken nations,
our dying world,
to the piercing pitch of thy people.

She was nature, beautiful
But deadly, her cheeks as
Scornful as a rose, the smile hid
The thorns underneath.

Her presence though unseen,
Could be felt, like the sun's warm
Breath on bare winter skin.

She led him somewhere secret
As the night lures the stars,
As clouds gorge on the
Fragile light of the moon.

Over the crumbled bodies
Of leaves, into the alien
Land of tranquility.

When he woke, hands burning,
There was nothing left to see.
Only a faint feeling glistening
In the air, a failing heart and
A tongue full of dreams.

I stroll apon the suburban sidewalks
of my town hearing the trees whisper
in the freezing biting winter wind.
Do they sigh or shiver in this icy chill?
What do they whisper?
The groans of fatigue echo
heavy ocean swells into the black midnight sky.

Deep thoughts flow through these ancient giants;
thoughts of weather in spring,
epiphanies of baby birds chirping for mothers worm.
The soaring pine, massively ascending into the sky,
dreaming of a childhood passed away in its shade.
The Birch relentlessly taps the window,
the old eyes of the faded house,
trying to awaken the boy once more.

"We will never forget,"
they say.
"We will always remember,"
they cry.
"Will we ever learn?"
I say.

"Death to his heart!"
shouted the world.
"Death to his mind,
his words and reasoning,
to his imagination,
his love,
his hopes and spirit!"
The Big bad ***** is playing
hard to get again.

Birds sing through a February shower,
and we be spectators of that grand choir.
For flowers now bloom
in the winter gloom.
Tears dripping from the green earth's eye .

Oak trees toss and sway their hair,
conducting a symphony of grey sound.
It's the music I like to hear,
when the good earth gives it's cheer,
Birds sing through a February shower.