Flight of The Mourning: Noah’s Ballad

Mottled dove, why sing that song

tweeted along wires for the world to see?

Being improper season for such tribute,

It perturbs, this song of mourning;

Echoing coo’s begging sleep.

 

This is not your song,

So little mottled one, why add voice

To cacophonous scale

Aiming for harmonic stability?

Your voice threatens a calm

Over tightly-fisted chickadees

Pecking order through flocking chaos.

 

Hollow-spined slight one,

Where is your song?

Yes, the one of glory, home, and haven

Extinct from earthen realm.

Craned ears listen through hymns,

Awaiting resonant tones that clip

Wings from spanning homage.

[Beneath the Canopy: Fruits of Paradise] -or- [Perilous Nectars: Falling for Paradise]

Fruits Falling for Paradise

 

Time and time again men spend

The fine grains of sand’s of time

Upon briny metal mine rusting

Mindings of God’s man’s mettle.

 

Their souls flow, rolling out the decay

Slow, slowly leaking Eden.

 

Without Adam and his sharpened staff, 

They’ve gone searching golden groves,

Feeding a hunger, tis eve’s greedy lust,

Nectar flowing down juicy dripping lips

Flowing farther from mother grace.

 

Mother’s nature hates the good-daughter

Before her heart slows pace; she quickens too soon.

 

Eden petrified presiding over

The Tree of Chi painted in the red

Flames that fall upon Paradise,

 

And greet outstretched palms

Praising the warmth, hands sunward

Worshiping blessings rained down

Upon by a God gambling on someman

Ambling into a tangle breeding corrosion

Folding beds into webs of lies; legs and thighs.

 

Knowledge live.

Humanity rise.