The Weeping man & The Whoremonger

A man wept bitterly beneath a dying sun.

His days lingered as unto a beggars sleep.

His once gentle hope lay now gutted at his feet.

Passé and decrepit was he in both heart and mind.

Alone and shamed was he; a derelict with no sense of now.

Whoremongers formed tight circles around him and worshiped a golden cow.

Ridicule they did of he; cruel and impetuous were their words of hate.

The small children laughed at him beneath the dying suns shade.

He wept still as the skies grew increasingly dark.

Bonfires fueled of blatant loathing dotted the hills all around.

The children laughed and laughed now until they died;

The whoremongers slept with desolations mother.

The weeping man stopped weeping; the sun turned to stone.

Days of remembrance sighed a heavy sigh… the weeping man was now home.

J. Allen Wilson © 5/2008