misers gather coins at the gate
collecting for the grand empire gone to dust
each coin taken in is caressed with greasy fingers
before being gently placed in the old tin cup
like a band of beggars and a sack full of lies
they are grateful for their small fortunes

outside a stranger passes slowly by
in the heavy rain
a light in his angry fist
that shines out dully with his agony's of doubt
to illuminate the shadows where his love has fled
he spends his days pounding on the doors of every home
seeking the room where he locked away his dreams
leaving no stone unturned he treads softly in the boneyard
seeking the places he may have buried his hope
he will hunt thru the night for a dry fingernail to chew
for a small place to hide and a reason to  bear the unbearable
and wait for the rain to end

the fallen leaves gathered like a tide at his feet
like a spreading death shroud for the days we called our own
the air tasted like blood and wine
the ***** wind gripped our eyes long into the night
carries on it the tears we wept falling from grace
the ones with hope laid it down and took up the faces of fear
we are the ones who gather up such hope
re-sell it in the border towns and dark soulless motels

fools celebrated in the shadows of the hearts crying out
but they fashion tools to carve new lives out of the old
a veritable army of a hundred lackluster minds
as one they commence to make the mountain into a mole hill
when they are done it will be no bigger to anyone except them
so proud of their wares as seen on tv
they buy stock in the ideal that less is more
and its more or less the end of all things
misers gather coins at the gate of this obscene theater
laughing at the ease of it all
its more or less the story of it all
so ends the poem to end all poems