All I see are desperate faces, eyes without dreams, minds without compassion and hands without Love, scraping their filth over creation. My own eyes are wet from this misuse. No consideration and without reflection, I've bowed my head, not in prayer, but with such monstrous shame.
I see this, my madness, as most tragic, the Love on which my flesh is riding is the only Heaven I know. I find it hard to stomach the cruelty being raked across creation with my own likeness being reflected. Wash it away! It’s too monstrous! Wash it all away from the thankless path!
The children are dreading the monster that comes from under their beds that have mommy and daddy’s terrified within their thankless faces. They sense hopeless postures when they look into the empty eyes come screaming, dead hands stroking their worried brows, greedy lips kissing their regret.
I see this madness as most tragic, the Love on which my flesh is riding is the only Heaven I know. I weep for all, but mostly for the children who witness Love being buried in the tombs of rage, beneath my kind’s ugliness, set to inherit such madness as if the heirs to agony.
Soon they’ll stare into such darkened eyes and see themselves scowling back at a foul inheritance, then I’ll know that it’s too late to salvage a waning Love. What then? What am I to do when the progeny of the loveless begin to drain all the remaining Love with such sharpened teeth?
© 2011 by mark prime
Comments
Post a Comment