He thought he may have caught
Among the snares and creeping vines,
A whisper of a thought
From the leaves and air entwined.
On the savage jungle floor,
The corpse of those that come before,
Testament to an ancient war
Lay bloodied and forlorn.
A trap that's set a hundred times or more.

The words were always just!
The words were just in his mind,
A caricature of conscience
What he wished for he would find.
Yet in the echoes of the moon,
He stood before the snare
And knew it to be bare.
Why then does the forest sing this mournful tune?


A girl knelt shy by shaded riverside
Asking the shadows what they knew.
They told tales of light once spoken by the moon,
A prophecy come true of a girl named Blue
Whose eyes would tame the wild.

Don't worry mum.
I'm worse than you think
But no way near as bad as you fear.

Dear good friend,
Perhaps acquaintance.
To the masses we pass on a daily basis,
The worn out souls and weary faces
Painted in towers of glass.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
Distinguished guests.
To those indisposed
By inexorable quests.
To the ones that were left
To search for what was right
Till there was nothing left
But memories of light

Blindfolds applied at night.

To the torn shoes,
Blistered feet.
The poverty we choose to greet.
It is pain, vain,
Somewhat plain to mention
That conversation's become outdated.
Sedated, restrained and correlated
To the denizens of a distant past.

We pass the world in silence.
Ignoring blatant acts of violence

Then claim that it is art.

Our body was well worn,
Born, bled then ill informed.
Skin shed
Torn
Dust to adorn a once pristene floor.
Bred to provide countless lives, more.
Martyr to a form it shall never see.
The water flows but cannot know
The extent of its captivity.