Of Power

 

Soldiers. Weapons and armour. And shields

Death is the only thing that they yield

When it seems you"re fighting for kin and for land

Know that behind you stands golden sand

Money. It"s funny- just like gallons of honey

It"s made by million bees who never stop running

None of them wants to be a bee, but a drone

In the end left alone with a heart made of stone

Fame. Who is to blame for wanting their name

Written in platinum, blood or in shame?

When we turn to ashes and our casket is rotten

Good deeds will, bad ones won"t be forgotten

Glory. I"m sorry- it"s and illusion

Representing the fruits of global confusion

People put people on top so they won"t

Have to put up with what everyone wants

Brains? PLEASE- who needs it when you"ve got hate

If it"s so fun to destroy, why bother create?

Since hate is so near to fear, nobody would interfere

No one would stay in the place of a foreign race, they won"t shed a tear

Success? It won"t make you less depressed

If that"s what you think. You"d get eaten by the press

And controlled by those with money and power

The person you were would soon get devoured

Power? It"s like a car engine with brains- wicked and cunning

Put oil in it and it will never stop running

And mothers will cry, And soldiers would die in the name

Of People with brains who promised them money, glory and fame

 

Conversation

 

There he sat in silence, combing his hair, smiling and ready to attack

Watching me with confidence which I at the moment just seemed to lack

He took deep breaths and blew them at me smelly and fast

A shiver appeared to take over me as if a train was running past

The distance between us would shrink like water on ice

And I couldn"t help feeling that I had just thrown the most dreadful of deadliest dice

His eyes were as green as the stickiest swamp on the planet

Once I had power of will but now they just overran it

He promised me things which, as he said, anyone would kill to have

And all my beliefs would simply melt and still seem more than enough

The idea of good and of evil, and of their conflict would seem like a joke

And I felt a scalpel run through me with every word of reveal that he spoke

Suddenly I felt on top of things, strong and ready and smart

I saw I could begin my life with a fresh, never- ending, diabolical start

Where compassion and love were but words in a dictionary and grief was more than unneeded

With no obligations and moral restraints and no promises that had to be heeded

Next we laughed with one single voice, he took out and lit a cigarette

I felt my lungs fill up with that smoke and I felt like an illiterate

He wanted my soul and not my friendship, he needed my heart and my mind

And then I saw those thousands of millions whom he was behind

I stood up in rage, it was what he wanted: my anger and my remorse

He stood up also, his chair aside, a tension between us arose

He said "Behold me, I am the Devil! Embrace me, friend, please come nearer!"

I hit him hard and all I could see were my blood and the broken pieces of mirror.

 

*******

 

He wakes up after a night out. Splitting pain

Cobbles. Road. Sidewalk. Town square, over it- slight rain

He starts walking. His limbs hurt, he"s with a hangover

A passing car showers him and he"s wet all over,

            He"s got blood on his knuckles. It"s not his

But the torn shirt on his back most probably is

What exactly has he been drinking

Street- fighting, what"d he been thinking?

The city breathes round him like an awakening dragon

With people speaking low in an unfamiliar, hostile jargon

His name- doesn"t remember. His address- why bother?

He must have a wife, a father, a mother?

They all walk past him, he tries to catch someone"s eye

He"s got the strange feeling they would rather die

He"s got "Misery" written all over his face now

 

************

 

 

 

By The Station

 

The Newspaper- vendor is old, he"s out of tobbacco

His hair is long past its last year"s trim

With so many things he"s got a lack of

He no longer cares that his face is too grim

The Newspaper-vendor is old, he has seven kids

They all want to help but they"re out of their jobs

He is forced to await any stranger"s bids

Since he does not want them to beg or to rob

The newspaper- vendor is old, his saga continues

With each day as grey and as dark as the last

Where the city"s a dungeon and people- its minions

He is strapped to his work like Odyssius to his mast

He walks by the station, he shouts and announces

His only merchandise, which is written words

None of the passengers that are waiting around is

Willing to listen to what he refers to

I stand there too, silent and leaning

On the station"s wall, observing the man

And I wonder whether he"s still believing

As he looks down and says "Dear God" again and again

The Newspaper- vendor is old, his kind"s at extinction

But they still exist in towns, cities, resorts

Bearing society"s unspoken conviction

Shouting out,

"Crosswords, news, and some sports!"

 

 

Hanging off the Ceiling

 

As I spoke to Death she complained

Of people, as she explained

Who feared her merely because she kept dearly

Her profession and the name she maintained

She said, "I feel hollow inside

"But those who abide

"In the world of the living are so unforgiving

"That they do not care about my tortures of mind

"Do they not see that I am the portal",

She said, "To being immortal?

"I would gladly retire, but there"s no one to hire

"For my service is so much important

"Now if it just wasn"t for me

"They would live eternally

"The world would be full of old rotten fools

"And crowded they would barely breathe!"

I said, " You are right

But, just in spite

Why do you take the infants and youngsters

Whom you sink into darkness when they"ve just seen the light?"

"When you are starving", she said

"Would you pick your bread?

"Would you ask your dinner if it had been a sinner?"

"You forget," I countered, "My dinner is already dead."

Death fell into silence after my line

"Do your worst!", I shouted, she shouted "Fine!"

She spoke once more as the rope tore and I fell to the floor

With the noose round my neck, "It is not yet your time"

**********