The world to a blind is dark
The pain to a senseless is void
Sound to a deaf is silence
Maybe all we see, hear, feel
is some imagination send to mind
as an electrical pulse on nerves.

In the one hand, that of the exploiters, an invidiously assimilative desire for the trappings of royalty.  In the other a lust for a universally applicable goodness, that we all might share in the profusely prolific profundity.

Knock on any door
And you may hear the cries
Of children, deep within a house,
Whose parents smile at you
With that eroded grin we all know
Like the stony leer of a gargoyle.
And yet you can do nothing.
Not yet…

Visit any friend at their house
And hear the silent pleas
Of a wife and mother
Who endures the fear and pain
For reasons that mystify us.
At least now.

Walk the floor of any factory or boardroom
And you will see the man who bows to his master
While, at home, he treats his family as slaves.

Visit the mansion of any president,
Minister or king
And you may see the ragged masses
Of those who built the walls yet have no home,
Who work the farms and have no food,
Who tend a country and are refugees.

Thus, in the cry of any child,
The fear in a mother’s face or
Silent rage in a worker-slave
Or immigrant dispossessed
And you will see the tyrants who rule,
The fathers who strike and bosses who fire,

Yet all of these serve one master
With many names:
Property,
Greed,
Violence,
Primeval rank and…
Power.

To this power,
There is only one answer
And to alleviate the suffering,
of those oppressed,
Only one thing.

Smudge of light
dim on pavement
made damp by drizzle.
Morning haze softening colours,
smoothing harshness
to pastels unobtrusive,
Extending the awakening dawn
void of witness to the rising sun.
Muted chorus of lark and blackbird
sensing the absence,
forlorn.

No one can know your pain
Not nearly as well as yourself
But the rope won't take it away
It just gives it to someone else

The gravity of grief is
raw and mighty
and we're often caught
standing like mountains;
broken heels pressed
into pebbles,
waiting to be forged
into something solid.
Trapped in
this long exposure -
a muted stillness
from the world,
it tells us we're
accountable for our absence
like it doesn't know
it was the one that held us
paralyzed;
a hostage to the void
and without light

Yet still we rise,
we fight to capture
maybe a glimpse of light
beaming from the sky,
giving life to our
eternal suffering,
giving warmth and
drying our futile tears.
We stand taller,
than these peaks,
having been taken down
into treacherous valleys,
bleeding into the soil
our ravished skin
will eventually heal,
and on our knees
we lift our eyes
in search of the
most divine truth.