I was told to write this piece

For one who has lived a pure life

But what is the point of celebrating the dead

If the living have been forgotten

The children who are born to starvation

Born into the war

The women who are beaten

By their own husbands who drink



How about the silent samaritan

Who’s been selfless all his life

Does he not get commemoration

How can we ignore their cries

Their cries to be heard

To be acknowledged

To be loved



We shall all perish

Under our false gratitude of life

We will continue to proclaim the dead

And leave the living further into the dirt

Wondering why the world has come to this

When we are just too prideful to open our eyes



When we set aside our ego

only then will we will come to see the beauty

The beauty of life

Only then will we appreciate it

And instead of praising those who have passed

We will mourn not for their death

But cry tears of joy

For the wonderful life they’ve lived

And maybe

Just maybe

We may cry that the Earth has lost someone

Worth living for

lying in a fortress of solitude
would you dare bare it all?
or you'd back out cause,
it will lead to your downfall?
hiding is your major flaw;
going in circles of self-perpetuating
frailties, you'll break like a straw

dear death, you are woe
with a scythe in disguise

1st Bell

Tears
shining bright
in your soaking wet coat
There was a time
when you believed
now you have grown cold.

2nd Bell

Small footsteps, small footsteps
she walks in snow
small footsteps, small footsteps
she's not even year old
small footsteps, small footsteps
she doesn't yet know.

3rd Bell

Heart beats
heart stops
simple thing
body dies
last smile
good bye
good bye

Good bye.

Prodigia comploratus,
Silence, oro,
Regnet exitium

{Wonders mourning,
Silent, I pray,
Reign destruction}

Upward-curled, gleam of white
But as yet, something missing
“I swear, I’m quite alright!”
My wonder turns to stressing.
Is she really quite alright?

No-one wears their shoes,
Socks upon the carpet
Browning fog turning loose,
But purple mist diffuses.
Is she really quite alright?

My wonder turns to worried health,
I turn my focus to myself,
I pull a beer down from the shelf,
Indulging still our failing health,
She smiles, as if to say that she’s alright.

Trading sweat between our hands,
A greeting shared from man to man
We speak ambition, WE ARE PROUD
Our cigarettes, they make no sound.
They know that it will soon be their turn.

To be or not… I have forgot.
Our wasteland, wasted, seems alright
It skips my mind I’m all I’ve got
I’ve never put up much a fight
I hope I’ll quickly be all right.

But there are NO PROMISES
And no safe-houses.
smoke arouses surety,
But holds the door for vanity.
But as for me,
I highly doubt she's feeling free.

Charging, useless, up the hill,
The last endeavor of it's kind,
Cry peace, peace, but peace is killed,
Fulfill the end of southern mind.
There is no way that she's okay.

As men in grey
Lay on the ground
Bleeding with untempered sound
I cast my eyes about the house
I find her broken, fading lips
Pressed limp against assailant’s kiss

Those pearls that were
Her sentient eyes,
They cast upon me smiling sighs
She clings the arm of shifty eyes
And leaves the party, new inside.
And now I know she’s not alright.

But then again, nor am I.

Libera me, Domine,
de morte aeterna
in die illa tremenda
quando coeli movendi sunt et terra

dum veneris judicare
saeculum per ignem.
Tremens factus sum
ego et timeo,
dum discussion venerit atque venture ira:
quando coeli movendi sunt et terra.

November 21, 1976. 11:00 P.M.

With nothing
he packs his suitcase, turns
to his own personal prophet
and watches and waits
and waits, he will wait
for an hour.

And finally
the prophet speaks
in monotone, three short syllables.

He opens the door, careful
not to wake dad.
Turning the corner,
the suitcase jars the door ajar.

A stirring from upstairs.

Remembering the face of madness
behind the pulpit
behind the door,
he races out, fearful
of footsteps drawing louder
and with them, promises
of pain.