I sang a song of tears for you
It echoed from my aching spine
and whispered with the moonlit breeze
Oh sweetest love, won't you be mine?

And should this sweet song reach your ears
Across the ageing, tired tide
I beg that you will take your heart
then hide it swiftly deep inside.

For though I covet it's caress
upon my helpless, weary soul
I fear that I will turn it black
and leave you nursing but a hole

So I will sing my song of tears
and mute the echo with my heart
where love, she blossomed once in vain
there now lay thorns and broken parts.

Let's love a while beneath the trees
Our bodies cooled by summer breeze
let inhibitions turn to dust
our hearts aflame with molten lust

Place kisses on white linen skin
embrace this moment, breathe me in
pray silently as we begin
for you will be my only sin

Come to me now with lovers fire
and be my only true desire
as passion opens bounties fair
laid out before you, quaking, bare.

Then enter slowly, if you will
as though all time is standing still
when morning rises, say my name
For we will not be here again.

The poppy field stirs
as spring breezes graze the silence
sending birds to flight
Hush, do you hear them?
a thousand souls that cried for home.

All men wear white crosses here,
the rows glisten
standing straight and tall against the sky
Shoulder to shoulder
finally at one with peace.
There will be no reveille as dawn breaks
No call to arms for these brothers of battle.
Only quiet remembrance.

I am doomed to keep repeating
this hateful cycle, self defeating
bleeding red through open sores
set up to be deaths only chore.

These many coloured choking pills
that rush my blood but cure no ills
have taken hands too raw with pain
and bound them tight against the rain.

There is no finer love than this
between my soul and fires kiss
which burns my throat and scars my heart
while keeping love and life apart.

He left with the passing time
no farewells offered
no heartfelt backward glance
his footfalls ticking seconds
echoing in the Sunday parlours of the righteous he despised

He left with the passing time
no one mourned,no tears were shed
His sacred, bleeding heart
now but a tattooed image
on the chests of the dejected

He left with the passing time
on whispers of myths
and suspected tall tales
doubting his own truth
despising the lie of his creation

He left with the passing time
while pious mice sang of his glory
behind the battlements of faith
as the wars of the wicked raged in his name

He left with the passing time
while mothers wailed at shaken babes
and the disappeared sang from **** choked graves

He left with the passing time
as society shunned his brand
and drunken feet  danced lasciviously on his moral high ground

He left, with the passing time...

It is the parents that water evil to grow not their children!

Breaths drawn
against saline skin,
hands murmur apologies
as all absence is forgiven.
Seconds stretch without end
battle cries, faint now but rousing
disturb the whispered dusk.
A call to arms, precious in its cadence
sings of life to forgotten senses
and finally subdues the longing
felt only in dreams of home.