The sun sits low upon the rainy hill
while my senses sit idle in the bone
deaf to the pitter-patter of wild thrill
and youthful candor. A wizened, old crone
beckons the children to return indoors
from out the rain, from out the cloudy tears,
away from the muck of the marsh and moors
which govern over matriarchal fears,
back into the warm embrace of a home
where leaders lie to their own families
and lovers live wherever peace may roam
Uplifted high as a warm summer breeze.
It’s the end of an era, so they say
at the end of every failed decade
filled with blind policy and vile hearsay
like Sisyphus’ rant against the steep grade.
And wherever love has lost, war has gained
A toenail foothold held fast with godspeed
Against a raging flood impassive, stained
by the rosy desires of stamen and seed.