Burning Fingers

22 04 2008

I look up at the sky
a figure bows its head
and then I wonder why
they tell me I’ll be dead
the ashes in the tray
my bones of mortal webs
the blood of liquid clay
the brain that swiftly ebbs
I speed on towards the light
hurling blockades into sand
we know that that is right
we need to hold the hand
that makes us all the same
we see and hear and taste
we speak and play the game
are you worried about the haste?
can you identify with I?
do many pieces still remain?
or do you ever cry
and forget you have a name?
have you ever felt the wind
in the leaves among your heart?
or do you still intend
to let your love depart?
the force of love is strong
like the light from distant space
the might of love is long
despite refutal in the face
the sun is setting down
where are the eyes to see it rise?
no one keeps a crown
except of thorns or gaudy paste
the time is drawing nigh
we can go and self destruct
or simply fade away
with the rosy glow at dusk
or open up our minds
and realize the depth
or never see the pines
and accept the tragic death
our fate is in our hands
can the demons gain the sway
or sow the lovely lands
and ye gods will know the way




One response

22 03 2009
Shawn Phillips

This piece always spoke for itself. Give a child a box of matches and watch what happens.

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