CONFESSION ZERO (The Weaver's Song)

Why do they stay there, between war and peace? Sky’s tapestry doles out guns, bombs and rocks while flesh and bone swim away from the ache yet live on as the food for the murder of peace.

Why do we hide from the truth as if it were an ogre while death makes a home inside their living and war dispatches a raven to their door, smirking with the teeth of empire?

Why do we wait, stooped for another wink? The sky’s drapery has tossed down ample clues; peace is breathing in harmony with war. (Road-maps are useless to blind leaders.)

Why do they hold there, hunched in the gloom? Hatred’s bird cackling with bereavement needs end. Are we not rightly dishonored when we fill its trough with blood?

They scatter me over the solemn ground. They wipe my death on the walls before my child’s eyes. My body is lifted from me and never returned. My eyes move to my child as the soil swallows my limbs.

This; my death, pays no tribute, serves no purpose, only brings my child to hatred. Maybe that’s it- Teach children to kill; vengeance; one tormentor spent, sold for oil; this won’t wash away to befall something better.

I descend with a last look at my child, eyes swathed in dread following me down, an ashen face and vacant eyes pleading as I pass beneath the surface observing the insipid reach of hatred.

I know war only honors the things of beasts as I am grown in the ground like a seed for tomorrow.

There is going gradually insane, there is even shelter from time to time, maybe a canopy for the truth, plagued by frauds, which is no one’s fault, they've only themselves to blame.

Then there’s underneath the bridge, which can be made to stay longer on the way. This particular variety’s imaginary, the idea is (was) to get homeless and insanity to sound like the other, the words themselves to feel like the other, roll off the tongue unnoticed; that way it’s easier to press closer and everyone sounds mad

Then... create a subjective world, where insanity is like apple pie and only stares upon the grunt.

The powers that be manipulating the machinations shall inevitably end up completely insane themselves, but with such influences upon language, they’ll continue to mock the destitute

Then… when all are reasonably and completely insane, we’ll not be able to tell the damn difference this madness will be the only kind we know.