The Creature

painted rows of rivalry
I'm wrapped in emerald sheets
the watchman stops and sings a tune
arrives his riots bride in blue
my arms around the oracle,
the Creature bathed in time.

sincere and hallowed, blazing eyes
tuned to catch the western wind
white ears to hear the summer rain
black bark to scare the sun away
and blue and gray his helpless feast
the Creature out of mind.

envision sallow tainted teeth
tumultuous the terrors rise
my eyes caught up in silver
and no ear of mine can hear her
a fact that does not hinder
the Creature's carmine smile.

the beads spilled out now fill the night
mooring hate to hardened times
while difference fans the shrieking flames
kicking Rome to drop her reigns
again I kneel all bound and beaten
the Creature stands to greet me.

and through my pain and grievance
with crowns of eager eyes
the knowledge flows into my soul
that keeps me young while I am old
it ceases all the warring ants
it cries for fear of fallen man
the Creature avows my freedom.

The Path

These are lyrics to a song I wrote tonight titled, "The Path". They go to a sort of deep, pop punk tune. It is pretty short and probably to be further worked upon.


The Path --The Painted Grin

"When I was just a little boy
I shot my dad in the back.
I thought the pistol was a toy
Oh but now I know better.

Yea in my youth I was a killer
With a boyish smile, pale as winter.

When I was only six years old
I slapped my mom cross her face.
Now I just do what I'm told
And wonder if there's something better.

Oh somehow I know there is.
Somewhere beyond my window.

As I walked home the other day.
I killed five hundred people.
I wish they hadn't walked my way
Yea well they should have known better.

Oh I'm a raging psychopath.
With eyes of starving crimson.

So if you see me run away."

Salvation

A green finch perches on a pale, old limb
Singing a song of unrivaled
complexity.
He holds his head
to the sky
and tears holes in the clouds;
brings life to the flowers
with aphids
twirling lightly
on their stems.

While the pioneers venture,
as the cattlemen ride,
and the footsteps
fall hard
from the soldiers' big boots,
the smoking, hot engines
growl faster
and louder.
The owls go deaf,
the foxes lay down,
and the willows
still weep
on the golden hills.

Does the songbird take flight?
No, he sings ever louder
and all of his fellows find fury and strength.
From a forest of red comes a roar
like an earthquake,
but the grinding of tanks
sends it rustling away.

Alone the bird sits
never moving or flinching.
The metal teeth pummel him,
languid he flies
and thumps on the ground.

But reticent cherubs
float swiftly down
and kiss his bruised feet
and his cold, golden beak.
They embrace him
and hear a faint beat.
The bird opens his eyes and sings.