This high mountain of grey and
where answers are found
etched deep in words of broken

Scratched raw white into the
crumbling skin of weak warring
brick and calcified bone.
Written in indelible ink on the
faces of the aged and weak
and canvas of a bright blue

Hear with straining ears,
the chant of smiling wide eyed
angels, throwing messages
and random words from reflected
distant hills and gardens.

Let me be soaked in hope, raining
down like manna from the clouds
and gurgling over purple tiles of
open showers, where ropes have
hurt the darkest eyes

Show me the upturned faces
of the broken and the gaunt
smiles of hungry faces,
eyes turned towards the wash
and heat of softly surging water.

Let me hear the noise
of children’s voices calling in the
stillness of electric buzzing days,
the rays and lamps on hot wired
skulls, the buzz of needles,
stinging bees busily recording.

The dirge of fathers weeping
free of the sound of traffic noise
the tinnitus of a world to hard
to live in.

The sigh of mothers mourning,
eyes blackened by the day
and mouths battered
by the kiss of evening breeze.
where living brings me gently
to my knees.

-Dave Kavanagh

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