I woke to the fear of you standing under a rain of hope
drops running down your weathered face
after looking into the eye of the storm
over hearts of ten thousand children
under the barrel of a gun loaded with embrace
from a father untamed, determined to hold
the hand of glory that feeds you lavishly.

And words and words and words
temp the taste of sweet redemption
nested in the laps of lonely men
sitting under the night aroused by the burn
upon their lips of smoke absorbing
gently on their tongues swelling with a thirst
for blood whichever way it may come
liquefying the soul food of embodied domination
over the darkest hours of tonight.

And words and words and words
become harder to define into a solid state of mind,
liquefying iridescence as the air we breathe
carries wounds of deception through the minefields
of hope when the unknown soldier bows toward
ten thousand children of tomorrow
generations recognize that ceilings do exist
and there are floors beneath them.