A single lyric on a single song, sung, by one of my chosen ones, a brother and friend,
a brethren, whose hidden meanings are never hidden from me,
as we both, both gentle souls who, when lost, have been
lost
witnesses and also been witnessed:
weeping into the rags of remorse

this season is nearing conclusion, I know the sun rays penetrate, in a vain vanity of a last attempt to purify and make my soul stains,
a burnt offering, rising as smoke up to the wind,
my hearted words lifted,
letter by letter, to whence they came from

My senses are not cold, rhymes run, forgiving the sun for it’s inevitable disappearance, so it shall be displaced,
just lie us,
over then under, a nearby horizon,
with a sunset wave goodbye, a multi colored coat spectacle,
that reflects well off & on
my pallid skin

When it returns, it will be a different star, re-angled, in such a way that it can no longer do heavens work on my body and soul, both
kindred entities, each with each other,
a commemorative tree ring commonality,
a newly incised cain mark

sensitive locomotives ply between the sides of my head, knowing better than most the true meaning of fleeting, for although I am in my eighth decade now, and those words,
“there is nothing new under the sun,”
ring inherent inside like
they too newly born
 but,
running on a track well worn,
now nearly scrap iron

yet clothed in my sinner’s wet rags, the remorse ever lingers,
directed to mine own mark of Cain,
awaiting the day when the sun touches my
forehead, and those loco- motives ride higher,
for their denouement, their untying(2)

Aug 30 2024
fini 2:17 pm
by the Sound

Behold the King upon His throne
Who utters judgments set in stone
He gives the wicked what they earn:
The death for which their own hearts yearn

Though oft for filthy, guilty men
Whose sins no scribe could tell by pen
This King, in love, steps off His throne
And trades their rags for His own robe

.

Here she lies
On the cold, hard ground
Crying to the wind
Trying to make a sound
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
A bundle of rags is what she is
Completely threadbare
The windows are aglow
With incandescent light
The townsfolk in merriment of Christmas night
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
There's no one outside
To neither hear nor care
She lights a match for herself
In defeat
The match flickers and dies
Like the light from her eyes
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
Her whispers stir
The chilly winter air

I'm interested in the prospect of exponential growth
and often wonder how some people are able to cope
when they find themselves in favour with all the hope
of realised dreams in life due to their efforts or oath.

Or where there has been a sudden increase of wealth
such as those we hear of who rise from rags to riches
for there are many true stories told of people's niches
and the way they have acquired a fortune by stealth.
__________