If you see a shadow, cold, pass across an open window, spare the thought, this captured moment, for spring has come and gone.
Heroes stand statuesque along paths where I run, through all seasons, for all time. In the halls of the institution, ancient and contemporary minds hold up walls with rhetorical tongues of mindless men. And my heroes, I might add, might just as soon tear those very walls to the ground.
Men, we are, and women – children, just the same, so astute in our unforgiven pantheon of idolatry.
Ah yes, but Hope does rise in chambers where lesser men think greater things
where children reign and music sings
and distant doth the death knell ring.
On holiday are the guns – in our minds – in our shallow prosperity, until from distant lands the tears of sons and daughters pour out to be reflected in the tears flowing from the eyes of my own child;
Was it indeed a harmony in his voice, an echoed chamber from another realm of truth, a realm where the heroes reign and greater minds whisper in the rooms through which the souls of children travel.
“Look!” my son cried out, “I am the son of another, an indigenous child whose blood soaks the distant land; Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, Palestine, Libya, Sudan, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Palestine, South, Central, and North America, Europe and beyond. Bring me home, Father, bring me home. Let the tears of fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, little friends on empty shell blown streets be dried and shed no more. Bring me home. For I am no less, but I am no greater and the hero called my name in a dream you held in slumber! Bring me home.”
One blade of grass, chopped short for a dog.
One, two, three, yes four, signs for ‘Quiet Respect Please’ for this tribute to a King.
Yet I say NO! No more quiet, no more silence. No more rhetorical respect.
No more theft of words of glory to be spilled from the mouths of bloodlusting hypocrites.
Let the words be screamed from the streets, from the people who must hear lest they become deaf, dumb, and mute in their complacent apathy.
Let the words be screamed from the streets, that the children of shallow prosperity might be claimed for the glory and hope of righteousness and whisper the echoes they have heard in the rooms through which the souls of heroes travel.