Revolution Lost

Revolution Lost.

My hand is shaking. 
Withered fingers rattle, 
dancing on the edge of a dream. 
I've murmured once too often, 
frozen my thoughts in neat packages of ice, 
and offered them to melt for you. 
The brightness fades, 
lost in the desert sand.

This pattern of flesh 
weaved on the rim of the abyss, 
each sinew is stretched and snapped 
forward into the infinite void. 
Forward and backward, 
through all that was 
and all that is yet to be. 
Through all.

I walked on in silence. 
I waited, 
but you never came. 
I sat amongst the flowers, 
and watched the birds. 
You never came. 
I walked on in silence, 
alone.

When I throw stones into the frog pool, 
the ripples echo back to me with chattering bubbles of joy. 
The frog pool wants a king, as always. 
The frog pool wants a god. King and God. 
The chattering frogs, waiting for their god,
disturbing the poison that lurks in the mud.

Drowning, 
slipped below the ocean spray, 
swayed and rolled into black and blue,
the fine tendrils of pain 
wriggle under my skin. 
Breeding foul slices of raw greed, 
breeding bullets and guns, and sharpened steel.

I felt the hand,
I felt the pain,
I felt the laughter
and watched the stain,
I touched the heart
I watched it bleed
and wept as I saw
the vultures feed

no one knows what tears I hide
beneath this long forgotten stone
no one knows the pain I feel
the screaming fear when I'm alone
no one knows what horror lurks
behind these calm and limpid eyes
no one knows the deadly hand
the treacherous heart that spreads such lies
no one saw the mortal wound
the knife that struck me in the night
no one looked and no one cared
when I was taken from the light
and when I am restored once more
into the heart of lovers lost
will no one see the pain I've born
and what great wealth my life has cost

My hand is calm, 
it's tremor forgot, 
except for the flickering of my palm. 
My eyes lie heavy, 
seeking solace and respite, 
seeking sweet darkness to hide the weeping. 
My heart is still, 
gentle pulse, 
gentle pound, 
striking the hour, 
the clock, 
the time, 
ticking it's way to the morning, 
pacing it's measure 
to my inevitable death.