Where does the hate come from
When a soul, killed for it's religion,
Will be prayed for in every church across the land

When for every person who suffers in silence
a thousand will speak for them

When a single piece of hatred should be buried
by the myriad love which flows from the common man
a plethora, of affection from every man, woman and child

It is Pandora's paradox, when she opened that box.
From it spread no misery, famine, war or poverty and there, remained no flutter of hope.

What sprung from that box was the good intentions, friendship, comradely; the love.

and what remained but a flutter was hatred, but like hope, it could grow.

Hatred flutters onto the breast of one pastor, and a congregation fears their brothers and sisters in the kirk down the road.

Hatred lands in the hand of a leader, and the boats follow, along with the mob to drive the innocent onto them.

But hatred will fade, one day.  
And on that day, the hatred which drove the soul to be killed; Will be nowhere to be seen in the churches
Which mourn it

I heard the ethereal buzz
and a beautiful voice of soft bed sheets and warmth
a chorus of love songs in single words
happy words slipped from my mouth
they'd been waiting to get out but had become stuck in my throat
until tonight.

Walking through the park
comes back to me
our steps in time, eager to escape the cold but content to wait
in that moment
I knew what you were about to say
and in a perfect harmony I stole the words from you lips
and our duet rang out
like the echo in a cathedral when the choir stops singing
for a second

Tonight you have me believing in infinity
in the beautiful notion that that it won't change
it won't
and I already knew that
but I believed in infinity as a void
as a dark endless truth that I could never stop feeling that way
and that truth persists
the truth never changes
but the people do

'The puzzle of divinity
the face of the holy
found in the eyes of an atheist

I was so close to telling them
I'd done it again
hurt myself again
but why
I love them and they make me happy
so why
why
do I need to tell them that I'm there again
there again at the end of a blade
or a bag.

I was so close to telling her on the phone
but her worries are so much greater
her problems are more important
and that truth holds me as truth should  
so why should I make her feel for me
when 'me' is just an abstract concept I tricked her into believing in.

I am nothing but abstract
and I will remain this way
because without the abstract
there is no truth
and with out truth
there is no art.