By: David O’Keefe
As twilight fell upon the moor,
A bittersweet mandolin cried out to me.
I do not think that peace will last,
Dirty boots stomp through the grass,
Even angels speak so rash, one said:
‘Even God can’t change the past.’
But of tyranny and tears,
I refused to blindingly grieve.
I begged the angel:
Please tell me of the afterbirth,
And that fiery tomb beneath the scorched Earth.
Shall man find his peaceful sea,
And shall the mourning bells toll for me?
Dusk ended and night began,
But as I sewed my wounds, Satan replied.
He sang back:
Ask me not, to make a man’s mind severed,
For my hands can hardly brace my fall.
And do not tell me nothing lasts forever,
For I have already lost it all.
My questions unanswered,
I departed that field, never to return.
But as I left, I wept:
For my own sanity, and for persistence,
Would I not see myself evolving?
To fall backwards from existence,
And reflect upon the world revolving.