Arrows cruise this mind,
sharpened, seeking what must be sought.
Knowing all that will be left to find
is naught for prayers.
Who cares what shape this earth must take in days to come.
What drum beats inside the bowels of politicians
As they banter, pitching weapons like shoes
Upon the sand.
Who lets them take control in such away that they
can rave like lunatics with audience in tow.
What do they know of years to come.
Flashes spin before my eyes,
while draining globes of tears
reflect the hated sky.
Can they not hear the cry of Gaia.
Can they not see the anguished rythym
In her dance with moon and sun.
Can they not see that what’s been done can be un
done in time.
Grow. Grow. Take that garden art and grow.
Sew. Sew. Plant those seeds that feed the face of life.
Shallow graves, and raves from ancient gods call out
…”You dare to make the same mistake again.
See the fallen cities beneath the fires of the past.
Do you not understand what will become… inspires now, but will not last.”
When earth and ocean mingle in the sky, do you not know
That Gaia calls to rethink and in so doing free yourselves.
As we all have a hand in the sunrise.