"coddling" poems
how is it
that they still don't understand
that we already *******
KnOw
how to use Excel
we already *******
KnOw
how to pay the bills
we already *******
KnOw
and they're either too **** stupid to realize
that
we don't need coddling or saving
or
they're afraid to let us go
they're afraid of losing their investments
they're afraid of losing their power
they're afraid to let us live
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:52 AM UTC
When I hear a concealed clock ticking,
I think it's some shouldered past jello grenade
ready to chastise my fletched thumbs.
Like the last time Sandman drew supper with his knees,
and decided to fling cherry cobbler at my nose,
I realized this homeless perfume actually belonged to Mother.
Her pearls redeem her complexion,
milk marrow of silk against her nose--
three strikes dawdling their tongues
from underneath tin necks.
Steady, rinse, exfoliate:
but those are difficult to do
when your rib cage cracks
like the last octave
of a reddening audience.
Brother thinks the tree skirt is soft,
coddling his pats and rabbits
below a ranch full o' pine scented apples.
Sister wonders if she should bring new girl home,
(met at 1:33 AM on 23rd Street.
Apartment documented to smell like baby powder)
but friends are friends are friends are friends,
just friends as furrowed Daddy repeats to himself.
Even "Hallowed be thy name..." confuses the CCD out of him.
"Cancel Alabama's trip this year;
the bees will be humming in their own candle wax.
Besides, who wants to hug Nana
when her breath doubles over in grilled salmon?"
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 8:22 PM UTC
Getting too maudlin’
my depression coddling
in sorrow wallowing
tears I’m swallowing
Need a dose of selfesteem
a bottle of cop-on cream
a potion for a daydream
anything to stop the scream
I’ll start my treatment tomorrow
today there’s too much sorrow
the doormat syndrome I borrow
between my eyebrows a furrow
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
Listening to peculiar strangers gather in the eavestrough;
Coddling the malleable bloom of rooted trees
An immigrant to prosperity cradled by Mercutio.
-Our revels now are ended. These our actors.
Burnt sand swallows the lighthouse where the savage hang,
melancholy-tea and a pulp-fiction spread
dismal characters, behaving bourgeois
-Gather in the eavestrough
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 1:27 AM UTC
Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic **********
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
Tell me gently, beautiful Siren from the rocks
Whisper me memories
Who seeks my life end short
inform me bluntly, Beautiful siren from the sea
the soldiers marching to my gate.
Should I set the pitch to pour?
The demons march
I seek guidance in your song
Is there something I missed?
We’re sick
our morale is feeding the ant hills
Consult me Nicely, Beautiful siren from the rocks
tell me just how many friends,
I’ll lose to this war.
We found the sugar, found the wine.
lost the honey, lost time.
We’re out of rations,
low on passion.
men coddling tiny strands of hope.
Save me Now, beautiful Siren from the Grave.
My boats still floating
I could sail away.
back to my castle,
where my people lay.
I came here for vacation.
but I found your voice, decided to stay.
The people of my land pray,
that I go deaf and return to them.
but I decided to hear your voice
while my kingdom Rots and fades
While my people die and pray
I needed this getaway
my people, dying by my blade.
can’t stand them lookin’ up to me.
Their tears falling at my feet.
Them saying. “Please king, save me.”
praying “Don’t let them **** me.”
screaming. “They took my family!”
I wasn’t born to be a king.
I wasn’t born to be a king.
The siren sang her song to me.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
Devastated
Lonely
Confused
Hopeless
I’ve felt this way for months
The sky has been crying since
I often wonder if it sees me suffering?
If it’s nature trying to console me?
That’s crazy, I know
But I still can’t help but wonder
Every time I start to cry, I mean really cry, it starts to pour
When my spirits start to lift, the weather soon does after
The sky has been grey for at least 3 days now
It’s beautiful
It reminds me of home
I feel safe in the darkness
So I let it swallow me whole
Enveloping me until there is nothing left but black
This is my sanctuary
This is how I escape
This is how I will make it out alive
This is how I become sane
Or is this how I become insane?
I never could tell the difference
What’s the difference between pain and love?
There’s a fine line
With just one stumble, you could fall out of one and into the other
Good or bad?
Right or wrong?
Easy or hard?
These simple questions hold a multitude of different answers
They have millions of questions inside them
Three simple words
That’s it
Three simple words are so easy to say
They hold so much meaning
They get used too easily
Easy or hard?
Easy or hard?
Which would you choose?
With the easy road, it never gets fixed
It never gets resolved
It could possibly end it all
The hard road is filled with struggle
It’s filled with sacrifices and pain
But it’s worth it if you can get there
Which would you choose?
Do you know the answer?
What if you walked that hard road, but they went the easy way?
Right or wrong?
Right or wrong?
Is it right that they do wrong?
Are you right?
What if you’re wrong?
What if you took the easy way thinking it was the hard way?
How do you know the difference?
How do you keep sane?
Left, no right?
Right again!
Left, Left, Left.
Search inside, find your moral high ground
Good or bad?
Bad or Good?
Neither?
Do you know?
What do you stand for?
Keep searching
Unlock that door
Find the key
Find the key
Break it down if you have to
There!
Over there!
The answers you’ve been searching for!
Crack the code
Crack the code
What if I can’t crack the code?
Was this all a waste?
Was this not the hard road?
Slipping, slipping, slipping
Psychosis is sinking in
She is my best friend
Coddling me like a child when I can no longer stand on my own
Sinking in, deeper and deeper
Black
So much black
She is my only friend
She speaks to me silently, but from where I can not tell
Who’s that?
Who’s there?
Yes, I hear you!
Hello!
I understand
Thank you
It’s good to not be alone
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
Spoken: What is heard
The adornment, gospel truths the pious believers of your personal faith. The Heresy, the voice of those you’ve ******
Spoken: That which can not be taken back
Your frivolous certainties had no hold but now frame our reality because they are always in the peripheral only seeing what it allows you
Spoken: half truths
The victimized, the wronged, the offended just to validate unscrupulous act to those who have wronged you.
Spoken: White lies
The coddling which breeds an ignorance for the knowledge of decorum, decorations and vails to hid behind
Spoken: That which the universe asserts
That which the universe listens to, vibrations that it assimilates making it part of the whole without losing its agenda
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
Satin runs from dried stains
in torn reminders of convenience
Morning tastes of stale sweat and disappointment... again
Displaced retribution is a punishable offense
sentenced in hangover flashbacks fusing pain in lust heavy deviance
coddling complacency, impaling the nuisance of a persistent past
That serrated double edge glistens with humility and humiliation
licked clean by ravenous canine
flinging leftover apathy on unwitting pawns
Feeding on the deceptively needy
blinded by intoxicated cliches
mistaking release for emotion
Condemnation bartered in stolen commodities
Toilet water hydration reconstitutes enough to bleed
behind neuropathic armor and addiction to the nether
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 1:24 PM UTC
I am making my trip and in the backseat of mine...
There's this kid,
This child.
This infant thought coddling along this journey with me in a baby seat would be all we ever wanted to be.
Safely I arrive with that child in mind...
Full of questions with with answers that take time from the hands of life in his story.
He sees the door all too sure that we arrived at the same place in time the destinations signs said the navigation should find.
Still in the backseat of mine...
This child,
This kid walks.
NO! Crawls.
Right and left.
Forth and back
Asking the question why?
A query so simple if he only new the answer would take some time .
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 3:49 AM UTC
I am,
just a surragate
the Universe chooses, at random,
to impregnate with
the ideas of time eternal.
This stick of lead, the narrow
birth canal through which these
words must pass
as I, with trembling palms
and sweated brow, force my hands
to shape the words as quickly as I pass them.
But my hands are clumsy things.
This paper is the birthing towel
on which these words breath first life.
And when I step to the mic to
speak these words,
release these words like one million birds
set free from cage
one butterfly break of cocoon,
each one set forth with their own intent
to heal or harm
to love or ****
I pray these words remember the time
I spent coddling and caressing
chastising and correcting,
shaping them into the
clicks and tones and dips and moans
you will recognize as poetry.
Simple words clothed in similes and metaphores.
But my words
are week.
They hold no power outside of intent
can't hold you captive without your consent.
For when I speak these words
into existence,
I send them off as dandelion seeds into the
wind to land where they may.
For I am merely
a surrogate the Universe chooses, at random,
to impregnate with the ideas of time eternal.
I am merely a poet.
Nothing more
and probably much less.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 9:13 PM UTC
Merriment bequeaths mirth,
cheeks shed a glow
coddling the tranquil soul.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 5:21 AM UTC
I avoid writing poems about flowers
I don’t need to tell you that roses
Bright, blood red, placed perfectly atop a broccoli-green vine,
Existing solely for the purpose of atheistic pleasure
Is something that is beautiful
Put a white background behind anything and it becomes beautiful
Flowers are more than a hyped-up beauty pageant queen that those old white women grow to fill their voids with
They sometimes manage to grow in my neighborhood too
Once prominent Victorian homes now squalid and neglected
Weathered wood, dirt embedded in the sea-foam green, navy blue, eggshell white paint they were once coated with
Trash thrown in front of their faces
Like their appalling forms granted validity for those who passed by to toss their gum wrappers, soda cans, and cigarettes without hesitation
It’s an age-old tale
Ugly things deserve ugly treatment
I’ll always spot a savage grove of mutt flowers
Amongst the trash cans and recycle bins
Struggling to make their way to the surface of these rejected homes
Acknowledging them, coddling them, interweaving themselves along their battered walls
Ignorant to their repugnancy
Eager to decorate and give them an evanescent glow
Sad too,
Sad they didn’t grow in front of some rich family’s home
Where they would’ve been given weekly haircuts and fertilizer containing only the best **** on the market
They wilt a little
They have no direction,
No will to live or to die
They exist and sit there until a bike runs them over
And takes them out in one swoop
Or until those stray dogs **** and **** on them until their weak
Frames fall staunchly onto the grave sidewalk
Exquisite wild lepers,
You do more for society than I ever could
You’ll sit there with a dutiful posture
Harboring old McDonald French Fry boxes
Eating the sewer-infested dirt that you laboriously grew from
Constantly breathing air swarmed with smog
Beautiful because,
Despite it all,
You don’t hate them
You’ll peek at me through your prison of trash and give me a flash of your purple and blue skin
And
My eyes feel your love and serenity
And for a moment,
The world is nothing but a kaleidoscope of warm skin and heartbeats
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 11:06 AM UTC
I call you beautiful,
not because of fact or hopeful lies,
but because its who you are.
I say to you I love you, I mean it.
I don’t say you’re my favourite,
because you’re not comparable,
I listen to you in the morrows,
and try to take away your sorrows,
I watch carefully your eyes,
to see if I can comfort your cries.
You see, here’s one important fact,
it’s true and I try and not let slack,
You are beautiful, simple as that,
its not just appearance,
it not just a consequence,
its your name,
Beautiful.
Beautiful is the name I call you,
not for righteous appearance,
not for coddling affection,
not for the wishful thinking,
but for you are beautiful.
It’s as much apart of you as every drop
or crimson rosy blood.
You are beautiful.
You, are so beautiful,
its more than just a name,
its… its… and identity of truth,
a banner to rally behind,
a truth that says your beautiful,
I believe it.
God calls you beautiful,
ordained with holy hands,
woven as so,
God says you are so,
who am I to try and contradict?
Well, I’m your biggest advocate,
your barracking fan,
the loving hand at the fall,
the one who cries to see you free,
and in freedom hear you cry out this one name;
“Beautiful!!!”
What is the day worth without hearing the truth?
Next to nothing,
but hear is the truth,
You’re beautiful,
not just in appearance, being, or in flesh,
But in the beauty of your true Identity.
Your Name is beautiful,
its why I say it to you all the days,
because I want to gain attention,
and bring a neglected thing to light,
You are beautiful,
You are beautiful,
You are beautiful,
this is a truth, I hope you believe it
as I believe it!
For my love wishes you to know it
all of your days, to live in beauty,
since its your name,
and loving identity.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 6:15 AM UTC
I have no idea what to say. I don’t know what I believe in.
I do know what I don’t believe in, though.
I don’t believe in god. Or any salvation, really.
I don’t believe in sheltering opinions and coddling students. I don’t believe in censorship.
I don’t believe in the idea that we should teach by word of mouth instead of leading by example. I don’t believe in hitting children as a form of discipline.
I don’t believe in authority that abuses power in order to **** anything in their way.
I don’t believe in searching through your daughters text messages to find out if she’s in trouble in place of fostering a relationship that allows open communication with her so that she doesn’t need to hide.
I don’t believe in hanging threats over people’s heads in lieu of the things they have done when they were a different person.
I don’t believe in kicking people while they’re down by telling them that “someone somewhere out there has it much worse than you do.”
I don’t believe in hurting for everyone equally at the same time.
I don’t believe in painting my nails purple.
I don’t believe in vegetable juice.
I don’t believe in veganism.
I don’t believe in paprika or leprechauns either.
Hell, I don’t really believe in anything– and that, I can believe.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
Love.
I am desert sand. I was lost in the sun. Blinded
Black. Hearted. Ice. Cold. Veins.
Rebel ruined.
Not one single drop of water was spared.
Desert sand. Strained through your fingers, looking for diamonds.
In the heat of the sun. Starched white to the bone.
Devastated by my very nature.
Lost in allegiance to my morality.
Look at you, look at you....me oh my.
My love, has no eye, for a single derision, of indecision, of loss or fate or something along those lines,
behind the broken front gate, and the new pane of glass in the bedroom window.
Did you really mean to make me cry.
I was too loved, for you to get by?
Not 50 per-cent, of a hundred of where i needed to be.
Sitting on your knee.
Love.
I am parched.
Sand grits between your teeth, as you swallowed the ocean within me.
Countless times i wandered around, these dunes.
My darling, darling, i lost you when i loved you.
Where did you go?
Are you hiding from me, hiding from my knee, from my coddling, and, you're not listening to me.
For, i talk too much.
Too long I have sat in silence over you.
For you hold me in your arms but you hate with your eyes, and i am lost in the ****** sand; you dried me out, you make scream for you, in the rain, and i lost sight of you, but i never forgot, how you felt, when i laid in your arms.
Did you really mean to do that?
Reborn in your grief.
You spat me out between your teeth.
From a mouth which made me think heaven, existed on earth, in someone like you.
Eyes of blue.
Scorched with hate.
Love.
You found me.
Trickled water in to my lips and made me believe it was from the gods.
Cold. Hearted. Girl.
Illusionless. Defeated.
I Fell For You.
An oasis, you, appeared to me.
Heat burnt from the inside out, sustainable combustion, which left through my mouth, and made you a man of worth, bespoke with grace, that you never had, but i endowed you with my broken self.
If only to believe i would never, leave.
Ask me, why i love you.
and i will tell you, i have to run.
Running from the sun.
From the fall-out of the world from my chest, on to the floor.
Flying out the front door.
As i drown in sand,
and you let go of my hand,
and my face, becomes a mirage of a hue.
Death, in me, becomes you.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
The warmth of the fire flushes my cheeks and makes me sweat
just like the day I first met you.
Outside, the snow falls fresh; the sunset is beautiful
just like when you first kissed me.
My heart beats fast like bird wings
just like the first time we made love.
In the forest I lay down and talk to the trees about good things
just like when I was talking to you. And not about pleasantries.
The birds outside fly away frantically
just like you when we talked about the news we were avoiding.
My heart swells in my chest
just like the child that was in my body.
Each and everything I say streams out of my mouth
like a waterfall down the cliff side.
I was the one coddling you
like a mother would coddle a child.
You were the one who was crying
like it was my fault.
The warmth of the fire flushes my cheeks and makes me sweat,
and here I sit with a bottle of scotch thinking
have you ever wondered why minuscule memories can be so loud?
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
Turkey and bread
fill our stomachs
almost as much
as laughter fills the air.
Sitting at the little kid table
for a large percentage of my life,
and seeing distant cousins in college
bring their boyfriends to dinner
seemed so far away
and intangible.
This year, that is not
something that will be
beyond me.
Butterflies are clouding my thoughts
every time I think about the dinner to come.
I'm sharing the bustling city of Chicago
and my most cherished family members,
with the man who is coddling my heart.
And for this, I am thankful.
CVT
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
Coddling the past
“I am accused of tending to the past”
How can I lift my hands
To reach forward
If I cannot learn
To let the past run through me,
Gnash it’s teeth
And bite me
And fight me
Until I can make it succumb.
Don’t urge me to forget her
Cause she will slumber
Until she is hungry
Enough to leap out
And ******
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 2:25 AM UTC
I was born into comfort’s cradling arms
And bounced on the knee of a lap of luxury
Raised in an age when the World was coddling
My lullaby was a song of interdependence:
“There’s no need to worry, you’re never alone.”
Quickly, I learned to step like the others,
March like the soldier who never says “no.”
In a land full of freedom, society raised me
To grow into a man without a conscience of his own
Now the World is on fire
And I watch it burn
Smoke rises with prayers from all of Abraham’s children
If I close my curtains
And turn on my TV
I can pretend I don’t see a thing
Put a locked door between myself and the cries of a nation I don’t know
Their burden is not mine.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
I was busy placing detonators under the MIRROR FUN HOUSE,
pitching
piveting
images of
itself for and by
itself,
when I heard over the rusting intercom
the main fuses were being turned off for a
routine check up and I would be
again left, as every one is, every night,
in the dark and
all the better.
The bombs in my pockets reminded me they were
awake and impatient or otherwise
alive;
otherwise, their life,
like mine,
wouldn’t growing steadily
shorter.
The ferris wheel in the
distance without my glasses
a slowly rotating
flower of blinks;
I wished I could hear
the pistons
the generator
understand whatever is making that
Big Wheel turn
but instead I sliced at the end of
the plastic ends of my explosives
to make them a little more
homely and different and
mine.
I looked up into the
rectangle framing my face
while behind me a
rectangle framed the back of my
head framing the front of my
face framing the back of my
head framing the front of
me.
I ran my fingers through
the wires petting them
something pretty then
wished I could hang this
night above my kitchen sink,
just above my rubber plants,
as good luck for
the future,
the wishbone of my
gratitude.
Instead I pushed some
dirt with my fingertips
purposefully without reason
then let the
wire follow me from my back
pocket,
leading the way
for the end like
I would lead a be-speckled French bulldog,
if ever I would give in and
purchase such a friend.
I walked some distance
I don’t dare guess and
laid my body against a
tree,
I hope an Oak tree,
the roots
coddling my thighs and I
can see my breathe in the
darkness and I thought of
the spinning, blinking
stars.
I took the detonator from
my boot and before I
pressed the
don’t press
red button
I glanced over my shoulder
wondering why
I should make it,
before,
presto,
everything shattered,
every light seared the sky in a final
collision with it’s end sister
in the falling dark
and every piece of my
face and body leap
from the ground with it,
flying into a place
the darkness seemed
much brighter
from
here
and
I
was
happy
someone
had
left
the
light
on
for
me.
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 9:19 PM UTC
Fluffy white pillows, and blankets, and fur.
All the little snowflake could remember seeing,
For time immemorial.
Snow capped peaks in the distance,
Frost bitten air tickling its nose.
High hopes, much promise.
The snowflake was instilled with a warm,
Fuzzy feeling that was unique,
And untouchable.
The snowflake felt infinite.
It's brothers and sisters,
Falling around,
Like a mother coddling her kittens.
White was pure,
White was beautiful,
White was love.
But good things don't last forever.
Grey ash drifted down,
Antagonists in a dreary play.
Sweltering sun came out to say,
You can't have it all.
Grey is weary,
Grey is sad,
Grey is tired.
As the snowflake started to drip,
And melt like cursed Popsicles,
It though of the time,
When it felt so pretty and unique,
But alas~ it now understood,
That none of us are unique.
We are all melting snowflakes,
And broken hearts,
And dying lungs.
All the same; typecasts.
We all melt away.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
~
i remember the day
when first we met;
your face i can see,
i'll not ever forget.
hearing your cry,
i sang your first song;
i was just learning then
how to hold on.
off to the playground,
i think you were three;
while crossing the street,
you were clinging to me.
when pushing your swing,
i'd always say,
'i'm right behind you, son,
i'll keep you safe.'
for years we work hard
learning how to hold on,
and then in a moment,
childhood is gone;
no longer their fortress,
our arms they outgrow;
we find we're not ready,
when it's time to let go.
we took you to college,
we set up your room.
had we prepared you?
had we too much assumed?
driving back down the freeway,
hope wrestled with fears;
our struggle to let go,
became a battle with tears.
now at your graveside,
i've come here to weep;
your guardian no longer,
now you're watching me.
though heaven now holds you,
and though hope i yet know,
it makes it no easier,
its still hard to let go.
for years we try hard,
learn just how to hold on,
and then in a moment
this life is gone.
no longer their fortress,
our arms they outgrow,
we don't get to choose when,
it is time to let go.
i still find this painful,
it's so hard to let go.
i will never be ready,
though yes it's time...
time to let go.
~
*post script.
an exchange today with a dear, young mother and family friend about her daughter, growing up far too fast, brought memories of our own child rearing, and of this write from several years ago and originally posted in 2013. its been dusted off, with a bit of a rewrite, but stands, both in sentiment and in structure, relatively unchanged.
these words left in comment to her, i dedicate to each of you young parents... especially you single mothers. "such is the tension of parenting... hang on too closely and a child shows signs of coddling, let go too fast, too early and a child shows signs of parental absence or neglect. the fact that you are aware of the tension means you are far more likely to avoid either extreme; and don't even think about some utopian parenting idea... there is no perfect parent!!"*
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
Our kingdom come
Which now stands lost
To its self-imprisonment in vice,
Finds itself in consonance
With the end its ways have wrought.
Soon we’ll find
Our only chance
To guide the blind
To righteous sight
-A chance that greets us with open arms
Opened by their lack of direction:
We herald now
The bell that tolls
For the impermanence
Of coddling sin,
Which brings with it destructive fires
That wipe away the cultures of decay.
We’ll stand among
The righteous flames,
Prepared to help
With loving hands
Those who survive the cleansing blaze:
Possessing eyes that see in firelight.
Burn
Will towers imprisoning minds!
Razed to dust
Will be walls that divide!
We must show this world new light
From which no one will want to hide.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC