Suppose

Suppose,
and recover that listless day
One feverish morning for
a grasp on a sickening life
Crowded seemingly sad faces overlook
their own harmless reflection
Before the early sun sets in peace
I can see without living
that little Man comes along to hide
the torn diaries cease to
become a morning reprise
That page lives it's own
And I see myself lift a
final life, to my mindless
Sanctuary
That you never give a cause
the never-never cycle to the
glorified End
Don't I hear a little whisper
of praise
Of the things done well and good
but never live to listen to the
wrong done in good faith
One feverish night,
the smell of earth seeps into
reposed chambers
And brings to light that
constant bashing of wilful hands
the invasion of hopeless pride
and bruised along aged lines
Lines that crawl with time
and separate wisdom from hatred
That lives only with a life
Not Ended till supposedly Dead.

Copyright © 1996 The Light Island

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