Hair a mess from what she can tell
in the mirror.
Photographs lying face-flat
in their frames over the mantel
beside the urn.
She gets up, sits down -
"Oh, what's the point?" -
and dials for her sister who has experience in this.
After the grief they share a *** of coffee and make plans to do this again.

Nearer to the edge
                             I see.
Crawling through
          eternity.
Searching for the master key.
This is our reality.

Communication has de-
                                         volved.
None of our real problems solved.
  We have become      uninvolved
while the whole world revolves.

Spinning further from cont
                                          ro
                                            l.
Turn 'round and view it as a whole.
  Mother Nature's gifts we        stole.
This is how our story goes.

Once black and white.
Once dark and light.
To complicate.
Bring on our fate.

Our halos tilt.
Intentions wilt.
Ambitions great.
Never too late.

Turn 'round to see the sum of things.
Counting on the dead tree's rings.
Refering to ourselves as kings.
Soaring on the deathbird's wing.

She dreams in aqua blue,
seasons melting into one another,
dancing among fallen leaves
or beneath the golden sun,
     her fiery green eyes shimmering
     like emeralds in a jewelry store case,
     skin like water running through  fingers,
     dancing, dancing,
hands thrown to the sky
casting rainbows like ribbons
to celebrate the dawning of her joy.

Immeasurable ignorance,
you wear it like a golden crown.
Born without your innocence,
your only path will lead you down.

Standing like a rigid statue
before a crowd of hungry eyes,
hiding all your sins behind you,
feeding them your ugly lies.

Money makes you feel almost normal.
Without it you would turn to dust.
The whole world begs for just a morsel.
How dare you say you're fair and just?

Trusting in you is a blunder -
you and men who pull the strings.
Crumbling from the weight we're under.
Expecting us to kiss your rings.

You are just a ******* whisper.
Time will leave you far behind.
Soon your name will cease to matter.
Death will come and rob you blind.

You will suffer in the end, and
You will beg to die again.
You will reach out for a hand, and
this you will not comprehend:

You will find no peace or mercy.
No one to pull you from the grave.
You will be forever hungry.
Pleading on your knees, a slave.

Climb down off your ******* cross and
show us all a miracle.
We need it now more than ever.
The world has become cynical.

Mother Mary come to me and
give me virtue, give me grace.
None of these do I possess now.
I have lost them in the race.

In the moments before dawn I
lie awake and wonder why
people came to be at all, and
my conclusion is a sigh.

I have seen the hungry eyes and
I have had to look away.
I am so inconsequential.
An action met with sharp delay.

A blemish on the face of time, we
hide behind our wealth and lies.
Turning all our heads and walking.
Barely opening our eyes.

Climb down off your ******* cross and
help us to remember why
life is dear and should be cherished
before we’re made to say to say goodbye.

Mother Mary please remind us
what it’s like to love ourselves,
how we all are most connected
and here to foster love, as well.

There was a time, when we were young, when
colors and sounds were more bright.
We breathed the same air together,
our senses new and our hearts light.

But outside there’s a swirling darkness
gathering its strength and weight,
swallowing the light created,
as we just look on and wait

hoping for a hand to reach us,
doing all the work for free.
It will merely sort itself out,
we seem to foolishly agree.

Climb down off the ******* cross and
do something for we you have made,
even though we disobey you,
doing what you have forbade.

Mother Mary come to us and
lead us back where we came from.
Show us how we’re lazy children.
Teach us who we have become.