I have to give you hope.
There are others, and they are not wrong,
Who will show you scars and how they got them,
Or who will lift up the rock and show you everything.
And presume that, " here only lies the centre",
But that centre is relative to their design.
Their present pain too noisy,
Blurring the lines of demarcation,
The idea of black and white seems absurd,
This present thought sacrosanct, this present emotion,
All there is forever.
Real suffering is not a noble occupation,
Real squalor has a stench abandoned of all pretence,
No one really stands for the glib response,
At the graveside of the far too young.
While in other places containing other crimes
Demonic dictators live far too long.
So where is hope?
In the insanity of `organised` religion,
Facing human despair?
In the hedonistic excesses of the disillusioned,
Who know what to hate but have nothing to love?
I believe I have seen slow moving death,
And from this side there was only the question hanging,
But that time, he moved past me silent and oblivious.
While I stooped, later, when I could move,
To read the signs he had left.
He was never your friend,
The lie is believing the war is between `us`.
Death's strategy is realised in our hearts and minds,
Life, Love, and Truth are summed up,
Not in feelings, thoughts and emotions,
So intangible, so fine as dust,
To be blown away in the seasons of doubting.
Real love knows how to die,
Real truth is a fire-hearted diamond,
Real life stares down death with a glance,
Of such authority,
Such appropriate power,
I believe there is an animated face,
Pure warm-loving us to turn, despite the eyes of our hurting,
These eyes never leave our eyes,
Eternally waiting for the unguarded response.