In this little
alley I passed by.
as a young
little lad...
I saw some men,
dressed and in.
Blades at hand,
men of kings.

Widows sit by the fireplace,
atop their little house on par.
To look down, upon
this alley
of trash and splash.

Now this man who has a mare,
who he cares so much
He dares not to touch!
Oh,
He sells fish
from the bay
and by and by, fish is cut
splattering blood on the table spot.
Like the butcher he is,
his anger flares up
to a child who dares
touch his little mare.

This child is slaughtered
to the will of the blade
of a man who has gone
oh so mad!

In haste to escape
of what my eyes had to see,
I seek the walls of those roofs atop
where ladies
and the cheeky widows
sit by the fireplace,
to fatten up their stinging bums.

I peek to one door
of rouge and red color.
This lady talks to the other
with great detail with a slobber.
"Oh yes, oh dear. The poor girl's mother.
She has gone to elope with her dearest father."

And in the russ for more detail
the widow by the window
asks for another.
"Oh bless her soul.
She surely will
oh surely will,
Have the world look down her
and she shall scream -oh dear!-
This is foul!"

"Ha! She deserves it!" The lady says.
"Ha! May she meet her maker!" The widow says.
They both say
as the saints they think
they were.

Now the words of another
widow by the window
**** the presence
of good will and faith
left by that lady
and in distress I leave
to run away
from a lady's
treacherous words
of ways.

Words are more cunning
than rumors spread
by senile widows
inside window panes
and chimney tops.

Blades move to ****
Born, to maul the soul
it touches like fire.
Like a monster...
Equipped to ****.
Wielded to ******.
Controlled to end
the life of man.

Gossip doesn't ****.
Oh, but it does.
When little lies
turn to twisted truths.
And
To the weak at will,
To the saint by heart.
The woman who
befriends
for the sake of malice...
Intentions and conversations
that **** a fellow woman's
sanity.

Words are flat
Cannot be felt
Cannot be held.
But words cut through
deep in the chasm
of souls
As death takes over
a defeated conscience
and a defeated will of heart
to stay from death apart.

To live on.



What is more murderous than words?
It bewilders the old senile
and cuts a blow
by the soldier's throat.
As the little butcher man
is gone for the run,
his little blade
*taken from the raid.