Of noble sentiments torn from pages to feed the kindle of wet wood pointless and inconsequential Moneyed arrogance, displays its eagle eyes in sharp, cold contrast to the weeping veiled women whose tears like rivers fill eyes - a rainstorm that will not cease until the hill and town wash away Gray clouds mask and mute, but below the fire and chiseled sword cut away at youth slicing subtle skin and freckled hope while embittering those in the shadows The self-appointed gods display little empathy – a dismissive swish of hand and tone as the page turns too swiftly to the next ruinous event Vultures hover over continents, weighty and anxious beaks down, they peck for effect they eat, blood dripping careless and casual hordes tread past the turning heads who watch and judge. Stars struggle for position above the dark planet waiting, watching for the graceful beauty to dissolve like old men’s words crippled yet ever vying for position and control. Stars shrouded in stoic dignity scrutinize as irate voices compete for the power to cripple men and melt women into rivers Below, the brazen, self-righteous thieves and dying old men refuse to let it go; let the eagles fly. Old men, now just ashes of ruins You are just the residue of a fire extinguished.
Wanderings and Reflections