A Porcelain Mind

A needle stitches a mind of cobwebs,
A nerve reaps for penance…
Paranoia lies naked on a carpet,
A tear cries out for its conscience…

A painter weeps in a painting that’s faded,
No burning lands are sold for ransom…
A pigeon flies with a bullet in its apron,
A blind man writes his last rites ‘neath an unfilled lantern…

His head rests on a frigid pillow,
Asleep was a sleeping nightingale…
Forgone was her lucid willow,
Her wings clipped to a winter hail…

The witness spoke for none,
His heart kept for valiance…
A note to a heart that sunk,
He wrote his last note to silence…

“What gives for this world’s not mine,
Am I patience or a metaphor that rhymes?
What’s time when there are no tides?
What’s emptiness when I just can’t cry?

What gives for this world’s not mine,
Is war all that’s left in time?
Why’s blood sold for a rich man’s dime?
What’s left of a stray with no pride?

Here’s a jury that bribes its victim for slaughter,
Wealthy hands rock agony’s adopted children…
Here’s a farmer who recites his rites to a daughter,
Whilst a merchant sells her soul for his coffin…

Here’s a land that rock dead cradles,
Here’s a land that buries them still…
What gives this world in shambles?
What’s life for me to forgive?”