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Alan S Bailey Nov 2014
Success! Progress! The unfinished work of men now dead.
In life each day they lived to be the ones who always led.
Following each day-I swear I wont complain about rain,
The failing now are preached to by those who feel no pain.

They call them "men of power," they worshiped in their might,
Call upon the spirits that do modern science magic every night.
For those of us non-believers, we hold our heads down low,
Not a ***** word, for pity's sake! We're learning to darned slow.

So I am "successful," it plays on in my own mind.
In a while I will be dead, leave this short life behind.
The faithful are now martyrs, they give cash and "daily bread,"
For a common preachy answer from their "son that bled."

But what is success? Can I measure it in meters, in parts?
Can I tell a blind man that he needs faith to walk in the dark?
Or is it only true that we hold our heads up-even fight,
To find a hero that will die for us, instead of keep our sight.
Alan S Bailey Nov 2014
Bo, the dog, I remember petting him,
And the old house, musty but the
Deck was my true haven for my heart,
Beaten up model cars my father
Painted into works of art.

The long driveways gravel, golf clubs,
Magazines, Time, Nat Geo, Hymns,
As well as a clay bowl in her hand,
And in the kitchen, sitting on the
Counter, the ocean filled with sand.

A tree was in the back I'd climb,
The odd-man-out wearing his feathered head
Dress was hidden by the closet door.

— The End —