To
spurn or burn in Hatred's turn,
to
turn the motionless stars,
that
blankly stare, their wonder less glares
on
the lost depths and throbbing scars
That
burn within the soul's deep skin,
to
scarcely state such scenes,
that
shine the time in thoughtless rhymes
and
ridicules such hopes and dreams.
do
we stand on burning sand,
to
save our tottered numbers,
and
hate what state should be in slate
for
the dear sliver that weeps and slumbers.
show
hateful ways on worthy days,
and
spare the shiftless pain,
that
shows it grows in misery's throes
for
the hearts that curse the tame.
Or
so you crawl conformist's wall
where
no worthy soul ever smiles,
or
do devote your time in hidden crime,
that
festers through untold miles.
by
Rainbough Bouchard
copyright
1998