And the night was the way it was
There was a heat but it was not unbearable
Hemingway sipped on his ***
As the Buk made his way with the beer
And Woolf eyed the passing river stream

There once was a dream that ended not in death
But only with the sight of a Christmas wreath
Snow fell upon the ground like the ash of dead men
And war pillaged the Earth like the pecking of farm hens

Where there is misery
There is desire for honesty
The rules of life change
When the bullets begin to fire

The mire has broken
There are faceless soldiers being
Ordered by nameless generals
The future is the present
And the present is at your doorstep

Walking through history
Seeing the horn-blowers with their faces
Painted with the screams of the lost
I remember by childhood
The vast plains concrete
And economical disaster on
Every front the pupil could encompass

Can there be only questions in life?
Where are these desired answers?
Are there friends on the other side of hill,
Or will life be only filled with the presence of enemies?

Am I my own nightmare?

Are questions
Only
A path to uncertainty?

The train leaves to pass a levee
With sights
That only grandmother
Would be able
To articulate

She cries as if
Death is her husband
And all her sons
Have abandoned her
For other women

Dylan is almost dead
I weep for the poet's dream
Seeing that the buttons
Never matched up to the seams

On the horizon the lines of clouds
Reflect the madness of the crowd
Born, constructed, and organized
There is no reason why
Man should not be demonized

Tell tale signs of the witch hunt are here
Can't you see that repentance has passed and not near
The horn-blowers, they cry for Joan
The cross burning
They seek another who unknowingly
Waits for their wheel to turn

Time ticks on
I love the sound of my
Gravel ridden voice
Mystery mends its wounds
As the caverns of humanity
Ensure that
Their will be a place for their eternity

Where is God now?
Where did he drunkenly wonder off to?
Why are there so many of us
With only ourselves?

I smell the scent
Of sweet and stale blood
The beginnings and the ends
Of a revolution

There is no spanish war
Anymore

There are no Germans
To fight

The Middle east has collapsed
In on itself

There is only us

And

The night