The mad one shrieks her own damnation
Breeds contempt for her salvation
and we say,
"woe the hollow soul..."
She screams her curse of agony,
echoed in futility
Resounding off her stone-heart wall.
And etched there in her cavern's tomb
a dirge of Death; a soundless gloom
defying Brahms' sweet melody
(she's deaf you see, and dumb at that)
and we say,
"woe the helpless soul..."
The creature paces to and fro
in places where the sane can't go,
refining schemes from poison dreams
her eyes black ashen coal (she's blind of course)
and once again we say,
"woe the hindered soul..."
'Tis true she's piteous to behold,
her sorrow's framed in molten gold
could buy a grouser's tear!
And though we hear her shrilling,
screaming wildly, "NO!"
We re-say our prayerful heeds,
"woe the hungry soul knows not her wicked deeds!"
Malignant seeds a madness breeds
no cure foretold by man.
The hollow, helpless, hindered soul
assures us this her paltry plan.
And we say,
"woe the haggard soul needs rest as best she can!"
She curls her body, knees to chest
while sleep-dreams bring a vision quest;
(she sees her tongue drip blood-red roses
as she rips the heart from Moses breast;
the Godless mad-one at her best,
devours her loving host!)
She screams awake with sweated brow
and dares to find her nightly ghost (it's gone by now),
then listens for the whisperings…
"Say woe," she cries, "where have you gone?
I need the voices of your song!"
And, we the Angels of the day, say,
"Soul, your Savior's here to stay
and will not leave your side!"
And she, at last, begins to see
the cure for her insanity
God's light her soothing guide!
Yet we, as do abide His will
Still hear a madness, echo shrill,
and we say,
"woe, 'tis time to go,
another needs God's Blessing still..."