We've all lost children,
I know what it's like to lay by the woman you love,
Feeling truly happy,
Kerouac, Russell, Atwood,
So many tears on a page,
Kale and carrots and squash,
So many seeds planted in fertile soil,
All our dead children,
Leaving us crying and grieving,
Language into odes and poems,
Nations into countries,
All those deep oceans on this significant blue planet,
Belgrade and Paris and London and Baghdad,
Dying of thirst in shifting desert sands,
Perched like terrorized authors,
Atop desolate skyscrapers,
Lonely words pouring down from perilous heights,
Jamieson, Ibsen, Wu Cheng'en,
Beaten into submission,
All the skin torn away,
Exposing sinew and bone,
Raw sunlight streaming into darkness,
Lava screaming over bleeding hearts and lost souls,
Erickson, Solzhenitsyn, Tomlinson,
Beating on barred and battered doors,
Waiting for rich heaven to reach down,
Lift up our prodigal human spirit,
Gain a reckless foothold in the tiniest crevasse,
Kierkegaard, Krishnamurti, Confucius,
Perhaps on this barren moonscape,
If we all pray,
If we all hope,
Socrates, Nietzche, Plato,
If we all get up off the right side of bed,
Raise our left hand so we blink,
Open our third eye,
Speak in castle tones,
Maybe all those barbarian barricades,
Maybe all those cruel ramparts,
Will ultimately shift and fall,
Lift in bits and pieces like a transcendental mist,
Allowing us to rise into a blessed space,
Where Angels will comfort us,
Where God shall meet us,
Treating us all as one,
Inviting us into a Holy fold,
Where light and joy and happiness,
Where sacredness can heal us,
Gathering once again with our dead children,
Reminding us we are truly loved.