What do you say when your friend speaks out against justice
when all your belief is Custered at the fall –
where the only regrets are everything,
a galaxy of sand.
Seven stars I hear, met the child’s frail limbs, opening
new dimensions of expansion within,
and there, increasing in size,
fractured with a filibuster force –
a reduction of sanity into
regressed hearts caress.
Come out and play now, no orange cap upon your brow -
a fertile son, raised on holy ground.
What do you say when it’s in your town,
not a million boxes away on a set in Tinsel-land?
Do you rush out to meet it, bayonette and fierce decry
clutched tightly in your hand?
At sweet expressions lull -
Here, a rhyme to kill the time,
but uttered from a tongue that’s tired
of speaking vines that fade away
before they’ve had the chance to shine.
When it’s your friend who doesn’t understand the point
(you don’t get it no matter how many times I scream)
that our twice-called little baby -
lost but not forgotten,
is reason enough to stop playing this game.
Wait up now, there isn’t enough time.
And where can we look to cast our blame?
what wonders wrought of vigilant Will
have been replaced by newer seals of approval
cutting through the nonchalance
with voluntary shame?
Oh baby boy,
you are my shame –
our shame; failed in that special way.
unknown to the mind which fearfully melts away.