O! It moves with such cruelty, such a violent gait, it seems to breathe of a bastardized conception, less human, more beast, without love or teeth.
Whether millions is even comprehensible to us normal Joes isn’t the astounding thing... We’ll never see such weight, yet our hands, hands of our living, sagging low of struggle, exhausted like a sea of promises at sundown
tell a different story.
Even the wavering spirits, the dull-hearted and brooding children are due a walk in the valley. The devotion of arid prayer brings even rainfall to grief.
In the slowness of our watch, our startled and clatter filled lives echo a self-imposed blunder used to smash our prattling teeth.
“Work!” cried the people covered in blood. “Truth!” cried the people grown of torn flesh. Promises in the gray-skied streets lining the rumble of the Twin Rivers, no certainty, happy triumph, sleep or love left to extinguish.
When we are through with our flowery speeches, when we are done with our marches on bombed out streets, when we no longer covet and we stop our crying and revulsion and rage and furious sway, will the earth cool?
If love and peace are silenced for profit then what chance has liberty or happiness to speak?
© 2008 mrp/thepoetryman
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