THE WALK OF THE SLEEPY HEADS
A deep breath with cold open souls
as if the scars upon our hands are
healed within a moments kiss from
a golden ring that has never seen.
Blind like footprints in the snow the
heart walks miles upon miles, it hops
trains and hitchhikes, it receives charity
and philosophizes with closed books.
Stigmata licks upon the brow of the
sleepy heads and science takes a walk
out the back door because sometimes
the starving and obscene need to believe
in wishes, gravity and undertows. The
sacred is a pocketful of powerful and
the man with the bloody hands is spreading
the works of published messiahs into the
eyes of those that break branches.
The sky has turned red with the prayer
of mixed thought. Anger has taken over
and a battle between bitter and delight
is raging against the colors of those swollen
lips that are stitched closed my the morals
of a scientific world. And no one longer
believes in myths and teachings that are
passed down. No one believes in sounds
or the feelings of the devoted. The Earth
seems to have been put together by
mathematical solutions. When will the
sleepy heads wake up? When we believe
in questions and answers it does not mean
that we follow the blind.
© Frank Reardon 1-4-08