Become a Fan
By Walter LaVerne Jones
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Not rated by the Author.
Man the final thought
Walk into the world expecting hope, faith, warm mothers milk, arms that hold and protect. Find cold hard indifference. Sweet the days are that live inside a baby. Small the expectation. Great the value of those first bondings.
Eyes wide as saucers absorbing all. Growth in virtue, demanding, using every ploy, helpless, yet so powerful, empires have fallen at a whimper. Stage empty my sweet prince. A skull to talk, a voice of mind, and a heart once filled with love and compassion.
Turn oh soul from learned fear, hate, torture and betray at a mother's knee. The fates take and place all in harms way. Tremble just inside the shadow of power dealt consume the flames of need taught at birth.
Resolve oh tear laden cloak upon the alter of mother raped by son and daughter by child of life burden left in ash upon the pyre. Take more than share watching pleasure driven to need and resolve. Kingdoms of earth fall as walls of deceit build new and stronger woes to bleed pure heartache.
Song of faith burns ever strong in the mask left on dramas stage. No trivial matter these words tasks
of death and life questioned by Gods seeking to understand mad confusion cast in die thrown to see
future lost by lust.
Sky turns to blue hues of pending doom. Dust rides in clouds as water falls in torrents to cleanse the earth of decrypted versions of a single God. Mercy no such word. Pain dealt out to meet the sickening plight of the peasant few. Threshed like the seed and the wheat cast into the flames and gnashing teeth.
Hatties burns bright in dires being filled at dawn and late into the night forty or more days to keep the
bath a glow.
Truth a float looking for what penance a piece of land to start the whole tumbles again. So strange this God. He offers like a parent, riches and gifts, then pulls all, punishes with a wrath unknown to any creature before or now. Picks a hand full of creation destroys the rest, knowing full well the failures eminent. Water laps and seas drop a vision left upon a
cast a mask built of all the faces. Emotion cries, faith, love, hope, life and yes-even death, grace the stick of the player. He alone is on the stage mind taunt and screaming, bastard though he is.
Silence fills the mind as the prince sweet prince gives up his soul to find it rejected by the grave. No resting place on earth or heaven or hates, destined to live between until all turn to the dust from which he came.
Sleep well my babe for you are the only hope left for man. A cross on a hill, latest of prophesy, cast upon a rock, drop of blood builds a nation, not of men but angels seeking to find why a God would cherish a far less creature over them.
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|Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado
|excellent write, walter; very well done! bravo!
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in tx., karen lynn. :D
|Reviewed by Tinka Boukes
|One very powerful and insightful read!!
Thanks for the visit!!