I see a billion black boot soldiers
Marching through the dawn
In a ****** up ****** sky,
With thier standards standing high.

There’s a tale in every colour
And a line through what’s been drawn,
That depicts the hurtful images;
Of the things I can’t describe

I see a single dove amongst two spires,
Flying high above the crowds,
Calm within the sweet warm light,
With her wings spread wide; she glides.

Now there’s poetry in motion;
With her head up in the clouds;
A good soul in quiet repose,
And with her angel eye she spy’s.

A foetus in its Sunday best,
Travelling through the birth canal,
On a joyous bed of hell;
From betwixt two ****** thighs.

A brand new storey does unfold,
It’s said all’s well that ends well,
Its place of birth here on Earth;
That’s where we hear each child’s first cry.

This painter paints for me
An image I can’t perceive
Of an angel soaring high above our skies.

Soon another will pass by,
Lying in a box too cold.
In a cemetery up high,
On the top white lily’s lie.

As-if in quiet thinking,
Four corners of a box men hold;
Within the body’s final fold;
A simple sky the mourners cry.

This Artist paints for me,
An image I can’t perceive;
Of an angel soaring high above our skies.

This painter paints for me,
An image I can’t perceive,
And I sense that as one enters life;
Another light shall die.