Sing

The panther screams, yet again, within the womb;

His mother’s golden eyes search the shadows

Of the night for the poacher:  No trickery

Of the gods on Olympus here:

Innocence no longer tempts them:  Paranoia and evil

Cloak and arm themselves into incarnate forces without

The aid of a sanctified force…no thoughts of “meant to be”

Can be condoned:

Evil happens when evil is allowed when heads turn the other way.

The words of poets, the canvases of artists,

The songs of chanteuses:  These are our strongest prayers—

Besides the mother’s wail and the father’s jousting with the night.

The poets, the artists, the singers absorb the ricochet of every bullet

In their souls when the fabric of the universe is rent once again.

They cannot sleep until they weave more cloaks against the

Coming of the phantoms of fear.

So, “Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story

Of that man skilled in all ways of contending…”
 

Where are our heroes?
They are within.

24 March 2012