Now that we truly see them, the people of the world, why are our eyes not wet in the midst of scaly grief? Have we not shrieked in nameless terror long enough, been onlooker to nightmares of insensible winters beckoning to us from unfilled graves etched in awe? Now that we might truly see ourselves with the world’s stale eyes why do we condone the enduring massacre of even one more? Are we so fearful as to not flinch of our queasy indifference? We should be vomiting out our coldness and ingesting the puff-tongued hunger for peace. We need be humble and reaching not bombing and preaching. Too many bomb-split, blood-spilled, freedom-cuffed, breath-snuffed and killed. Listen… You can sense the dead eating our horror. Heed the dry bone now bleached under dawn’s collapse, perceive the stars and moon tremble and overlap the other. If you listen closely, you can hear immense wings clamoring for heaven. © 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime
(The Weaver's Song)