Dog tired eyes heavy the waves of the lights keeps Her mind open
Closed closets keep inside the ones that cannot forgive
Their supposed sins of a supposed Lord
Freedom is a fact few ever truly seem to grasp and understand
Even me
I am the ant in the middle of the hill trying to reach the sun
For when I reach the summit
I will be immolated and annihilated to the point of
No recollection or resurrection
I seek a death that is of nature
Of spirit
Of man and of the pounding hammer made of blood and bone
We are the sinking ships whose anchors
Drop through the drifting white clouds above our puny little heads
Run walk ride trip skip tip all the way to work
To make that mad little dollar
To feed the squalor or
The daughter
To fight to chipped and shredded tooth
So at last peace arrives when one plops down
On a blackjack players booth
Leaves ripple like the sun lit feathers of a hawk
Which eyes their prey from a mile away
When the word is right
There is
No word
At all