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The mind moves mountains.
Poetry in motion proves louder than…
The lies that corrupt our lives.

The stinging songs of society will expire,
Exasperating sighs of the soul will tire,
The truth will triumph no matter the cost,
Before every crown surely comes the cross.

If poetry is the power to end every plight,
I’d gladly say, “This is why I write!”

Before you see through my eyes, walk my line,
Breathe through my lungs and tour my mind.
Travel through my veins, through my very flesh,
You will understand why life is vain, a frail test.

As I’m…
Chased by the many demons in the night,
They compel me to make things right.
The pain in my chest becomes too tight.
And I’m seeing…
Tears that are not my own.
And I finally understand…
That which is sown is grown and eventually mown.

The skill and the will and the futile fights,
To prove the world isn’t black and white.

If poetry is the power to end every plight,
I’d gladly say, “This is why I write!”
© Thorne J. McFarlane
“Husband murdered wife over domestic dispute”

Witnesses say they heard yelling getting clearer
The community is shocked and never expected this terror
A husband was angry over losing his kids to his wife
He drove eight blocks to take her life

He broke into her house and broke many things
She came downstairs and the fat lady sings
He knocks her down to the carpet
At three in the morning the air remains scarlet

He strangles her on their couch
Blood filling up in her mouth
At three in the morning she left this life
Why do we do this to our women?
© Thorne J. McFarlane
Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket’s lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.

For every person looking to preserve life,
There are four others looking to destroy it.
Though compassion is our signature tool,
Oh, only a handful of us ever employ it.
There is no neutrality when our conscious hearts fail.
If our better angels remain silent, our darker halves prevail.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

Everyone has a two-ton war machine.

Festering in heat,
Moral fabric unweaves.
Desecration,
Denigration,
Desiccation,
The remains of a sacred bond left tattered by deceit.
The sound of a stained glass window shattered by thieves.
Oh, somewhere our better half grieves.

The enigmatic future inches nearer,
An ambiguous choice becomes clearer,
The sound of rattling, an empty heart,
Battling, an empty mind.
The sound of hurried footsteps…
And there are others not far behind.
The blind guiding and seeking the blind,
Oh, somewhere our better half searches to find…
A shelter from all of these two-ton war machines.

Everyone has a two-ton war machine.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

The pain lingers,
Morality rests in tatters,
Miniature death-bringers,
The sound of a bigot’s daggers,
The sound of a depressed man’s gun facing backwards…
After he decides that nothing else matters.
Oh, somewhere our better half staggers.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

Everyone has a two-ton war machine.

The temperature escalates,
Morality thrown out with the spoils,
The sound of tension as it elevates,
The sound of blood as it boils,
Oh, somewhere our better half recoils.
Because everyone has a two-ton war machine.

A guilty conscience, a burdened soul, a heavy heart,
And a two-ton war machine.

Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
© Thorne J. McFarlane

— The End —