Her arms felt empty and pain stabbed her heart. There were no more cats left. Nothing. Odd how the tears refused to come. Only pain. For a long time she stood staring blankly out the window.
  Why had she ever supposed that all she was doing was helping little innocent creatures who were now gone? Only her heart beat on and on, though broken.
  Finally with a sigh she sat down with her notebook, but no words came.

The bright sun reddened
In dreams embedded
My thoughts of fantasy ran
I was left alone
And my thoughts did roam
As I sat on shores of sand

I watched the sun set
While these thoughts I met
Thoughts of castles in the sky
And I sighed with dreams
Floating by it seems
And the wood thrushes cry

The waves lulled my soul
I heard a bell toll
In my imagination
I hear the sweet strings
As the music rings
My melody's creation

Pedal harps of gold
Play in those bright, bold
Sweet colours of the sunset
The violin rings
Classic music sings
I'm so glad this place I met

*~Marian~

"I thought you might enjoy this dvd about St. Francis," said Emily Scott, glancing curiously about the living room which looked like it had come out of "Better Homes and Gardens". However did the Detweilers not only manage to keep everything immaculate,but afford such extravagant furniture? Which is why it would prove enlightening to know what she thought of St. Francis.
A week later she called Regina Detweiler on the phone. " Well, how was the dvd? Did you like it?"
    "Oh, it was awesome... my husband and I throughly enjoyed it."
    "You mean... you agree with his philosophies?"
     "Philosophies? Hmmm. Oh, that! Well, he-uh- lived a long time ago."

Time to get the bricks,
better pick up cement too.
Cancelling all my plans,
I've got a lot of work to do.

I'm rebuilding my walls today.
The ones around my heart.
Somehow you managed to break through the first time.
But this time I know what I'll do.
I'll reinforce them with steel.

I'll never have to love again.
I'll never be in pain.
And you can love her carelessly,
Please, no, don't worry about me.
I'm gonna be fine,
My wall will keep me safe.

“No one’s perfect until you fall in love with them”
That’s what they say
And I've fallen for a boy
Who couldn't possibly fall for me
But I fell for him anyways,
And he is perfect in my eyes
But it is useless for he won’t love me back
Quite sad, isn't it?
He must not realize that he wanders
Into my mind every so often
I have him memorized
While he barely glances my way,
And has taken over my daydreams

I want to climb the hillsides
And to see each wondrous view,
And find the peace I long for there
It's all I wish to do,
I want to walk down winding lanes
And to see the lands of green,
And to smell the pretty flowers there
And breathe the air so clean.
I just want to change my world
I need a brand new start,
And leave the strife of city life
A country boy at heart.

I want to cross the meadows
And to see the woodlands grow,
I want to find serenity
Wherever I do go,
I long to see the rivers
And the gently flowing streams,
Which sparkle in the sunlight there
Within a place of dreams.
I just want to change my world
I need a brand new start,
And leave the strife of city life
A country boy at heart.

I want to see the wheat that blows
Within the fields of gold,
I want to find the freedom
And the treasures there untold,
I want to hear the birdsongs
In early morning skies,
And to witness every sunset
And to watch each dawning rise.
I just want to change my world
I need a brand new start,
And leave the strife of city life
A country boy at heart.

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread

Sober in the ****** light
sees me looking out over an empire,
the chimneypot stacks pointing towards
gray weathered skies
and my clock lies,
it’s an hour ahead of time,
near six to be precise,
and my head is soldier like:
vigorous, vigilant and abled to strike.

Drunk in the ****** light
sees me looking out over disappointment,
a recollection from last night-
let me dance in an awful club with a girl whose eyes know what I’m on about,
and that my dancing is only a dance- not performance art nor a joke-
-and the chimneypot stacks are early with their smoke,
I am cold in this jumper
and my I lie,
it's an hour behind the rest,
just past four
and my head is all over the place,
unsteady and unsure.