when birds flap restless to settle upon the ends of your command
are they fully cognizant of what awaits them?

there comes one dove who really means no harm
and dies to please you in every position and way

fix your mien and and touch that pulse inside (the other one)
and maybe your cynicism can be smacked with truth.

they hold tubes of ink and can grip cumulus ends
type out the letters of sinking words I lie fallow for
they curl disdainful and wipe out tracts untainted

flakes come off the ceilings in my stretch to the sky
planes skim clouds overhead and truckers roar by
little whips to frenzy, the calm of your cyclic beauty

I exist happenstance on the indulgence of your digits.

please to take the hand and lead the way to the next moment of difficulty
walk up to the offended and offer sorries to a scribbling pen looking down

mad and mixed up, seeker on ironic bend of heart sap in a vat, cracked a bit
swearing to do better from a record of silly peccadilloes steeped in arrogance

all around with notepads which scratch and jot down every single word, I see
chances have to be bought with obedience drummed into a free head

break your spirit, take what the world gives
there's little space for a heart wishing to fly

blowing on the cusp of the new
comes expanding moments of clarity in smiles and hearty welcome, is it any real?

can you hold onto those long reins of power in your grasp
as well as to the heart you flung in that corner, far from eyes, yet close enough to singe?

can you dare to unfold your fears packed in wads and unravel your ire
can you afford to hold me?

you will hear the song sung for you, penned by this heart so steeply in love
sung for you, by choristers at some interment

in came scythes to sheave into bundles, every chance mocked
and death enjoys gawking at our shock
we could have, so easily taken from the train there, the bus over
together we could have done it

the bus rode over a **** and it continued to the wood's end
it's there where your fire's burning huge beacons
it's some work still to find you, hiding in that forest
we could have, we could have.

it hangs sullen from ropes made of judgment, discord is tangled in every breath
guesswork at the outcome, uncertainty the only thing that is certain
trials and hearings hold the lives of others in the hands of men, bent on working some out

society, as a rule, ***** at extending compassion
they cut off the hands that feed the monstrous system
and the eyes of stereotype crinkle, bemused and complacence smiles sly

true justice is a shy thing, skittish and absent
standing on the sidelines, it's a hopeless mess!