They say love is a toxic bouquet,
A beautiful gift hides its decay.
Give them a slice of your heart,
They become sickened and die.
Love tears us apart,
Love bleeds us dry.
To lose all we cherish,
All great things perish.

Suffer for your precious display,
Squandered in hopeless dismay,
Selfish love is a toxic bouquet.

They say love is a toxic bouquet,
A beautiful gift hides its decay.
The petals leave a dark residue,
The remedy is so long overdue.
Loud feelings are slow to action,
Love takes but does not ration.
Once lovely, now out of fashion,
A rolling trend of passing passion.

Suffer for your precious display,
Squandered in hopeless dismay,
Selfish love is a toxic bouquet.

They say love is a toxic bouquet,
A beautiful gift hides its decay.
You don’t know the pain you cause,
The grief will put your life on pause.
Sweet nectar is toxic to swallow,
Love leaves the widows to wallow,
Love leads the sinners to sorrow,
A trail of ruin is hard to follow.

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.

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!”