When the moon retires running her length
the river lies a fishbone on the white plate
feebly breathing like the slosh from oars,
the shadow digs a hole in the bush.

The faintest chill rattles don't escape
and the chatters dull as broken notes,
the shadow picks up from the mist
with the intent of an absorbed dreamer.

The gold diggers in that forbidden land
filter their preys keen to fill some more
from the mines lining the grey riverbank
with each reap a little closer to attainment.

The precise compass weighs the measure
tightening the muscles into a symphony
for that climb onto the ****** in one spring
before stealing the stilled, deep into silence.

Albert Day was one of a kind,
A middle aged man,
with a much younger mind.
Some claimed he was crazy,
some said "Just *******,"
some said as a child
he was left brokenhearted.

Whatever the reasons
it didn't quite matter,
for Albert cared not
for the first or the latter.
Let them say what they wanted,
stupid fools with worthless lives.
Bratty kids... barking dogs...
know it all's with cheating wives.

He knew more of them,
then they knew of each other.
What they knew of him,
he had learned from his mother.
He knew he was useless,
nobody could love him.
No wonder to Albert,
that's what they thought of him.

Albert lived in a small mountain town,
a place he believed to know well.
The annual picnic was coming around,
Albert figured he'd go for a spell.
It wasn't like Albert to be in a crowd,
these people were ******* his eyes.
But this year he'd go,
this year he'd be proud,
for this year he had a surprise.

Saturday dawned with a bright blue sky.
Albert awoke with a smile.
He didn't know how
he didn't know why
but he did know today was worthwhile.
Townspeople gathered at Finnigans Park
with umbrellas, and sunscreen, and chairs.
Albert arrived with his mind in the dark,
stupid fools, how they're left unawares.

Alone on his blanket he sat and he watched,
as festivities got underway.
Wondering when to contribute,
his festivities to this fine day.

He studied the husbands,
he stared at the wives.
Watched the kids as they played in the sun.
His patience wore thin,
yet he still wore his grin,
reaching into his sock for his gun.

It only took seconds to squeeze the trigger.
Just seconds to see them all fall.
He thought to himself as he watched them...
stupid fools.... you don't know me at all.

When I think about the executioner
I think about at the moment after impact
How every one goes limp into total relaxation
When I think about the executioner
I think about our children in mortal terror
And I weep.

When I think about the executioner
I wonder what he does after
Is there exhilaration?
Andrenial and endorphins,
Whiskey speed and morphine
Prayers all night,
Telling their god about all they gave,
Maybe feeling nothing like killing a fly
Or are there endless movies of regret?

When I think about the executioner
I think about the man in the fiery cage
Head bowed
The man looking to his left
Before the shot goes off

When I think about the executioner
I think of the last breath
Before death

When I think about the executioner
I wonder about being there
And how I will react.

My love,
is a blackberry bramble
A control freak
Taking over everywhere
Knocking down fences
to follow the sun
to get to their destination.

Thorns with hooks and barbs
Which will slice you cut you
pierce you and not let go
if you get too close

But, along the way
Will deliver to you
the sweetest berries you'll ever know.

strong blusters of thronging wind
blew through the town's streets last night
whirling with a forceful might
as heard in their skirl