Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

A poisonous catch

A prisoner am I, in bruises and regret.
Locked in the filth of sadness, I brace
Myself for the bitter cold of discernment.
For once, the wind has blown my troubles
From the kitchen table and I am
Hoping to catch at least one for a
Proper burial, alas, I am too slow
And riddled with unused, stale prayers.
I pick one up, dust it off and blow it
To god but along the way, it had
Evaporated into a mist that god could
Not touch and down and away did
This mist fall, planting small drops
Upon the half dead grass and drying up
Just like most dreams do when
Poisoned by reality and lies and greed.
The kind of poison that builds nations,
Instead of just building bridges.

November 18, 2007

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A poisonous catch

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