The hero dies at the end of this story
We all know how it goes
The same old song goes on and on
So strap in and raise your chins
Its a scene we already know
The hero dies at the end of the story
And were left wondering
What even was the point of it all?

Sweet silver tongue
Builder of hope and of Nations undone
Whispers of light against the darkness beyond
Oppressive dictators, shackles of freedom with the tune of a hum

Hum sweet silver tongue, do you tire to be a rudder
Sailing your ship through the cracks of instability, tearing down a sister, or a brother
Setting up systems, to rob child from their mother
Foreign lands now discovered, shackled hands, the nations dollar

When you’re sitting in your palaces,
Sipping blood from your chalices, made from labour of your educated salve, indoctrinated ways, disseminated lies- made to believe these shackles are made to save

Sweet silver tongue, do you blame the throne or do you blame the song, do you blame the culture gifted from generations gone
Do you blame the man upon whom this title is on,
Or do you blame the nations lalaby to the newborn, “live for today, tomorrow may never come”

Price of admission

Filled with hate
He picks his blade
Awaiting the next victim to take away
As scary as it is
The ripper has a sad soul
Only he know why he does what he does

TWO VERSIONS OF THE SAME STORY

                                          ( I)
lost in a thousand days our lives are twined
like  deep rooted trees we grow, embarking on a destiny
digging deep into the  rich soil of life, that which sustains
we take from it, giving in return, sharing the elements
that make us who we are, continuing to thrive
we are bold, boundless- letting our roots go where
they need to go, we are capable, inclined to be more, we give
into the future and past, for we our delineated, crisscrossed
we live in possibilities, we are ancient still young, living invincible

                                              (II)
love as a canvas expressed in this portrait of us
made from our flesh and feeling exposed, to be
artfully designed copied, envied, worshipped, whispered
as we take repose upon the alter of love, letting our passion burn
we are ageless, advantageous, ever-knowing
while there in the corner, a soundless spy stays ready
to keep watch over us, candle flame flickering, it burns through
illuminating our shadow, as we grow bigger from floor to ceiling,  immense, ready to breach our  boundaries that hold
us down, we tell ourselves, no more as we make ready to
accept this destiny and not some alternate version copied from  

by Michael Perry