Love and Words

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The Executioner's Song

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My hour of worship is midnight.

The moon bright altar flame.

I am the hope

of forgotten men.

God in a world without blame.


The cross blankets body thought. 

Sometimes it cushions with deed.

Food is proof of kindness, 

kindness bargained for peace.


Prayers are said.

Permission loomed.

So it begins.

Death enters the room.


The life that waited,

retreats from the world.

The soul is forgotten. 

The body pieced by worms.


Death will go back to living,

until he is needed again.

Memory will be argued 

by no one called a friend.


Compared to a soldier feted

for killing in the name of caprice,

death in the peace is kept hidden,

blind justice fails its increase.


Even on 

battlefield, there is no face.

Even in 

war, rules contain blame. 

At home,

where soldiers are bootless,

death is recruited and paid.

Service requested and rendered,

secrecy hides all blame.


Judas fed coins to soil,

the only seeds that ever grew,

trees to watch the world,

and man as he stumbles through.


Bright moon finds swaying face

to hide and reveal again,

flashes of effort misplaced,

spun chance revealed, forsaken.


In solemn place,

the body strapped down and blinded, 

still communicates.

pressed wafer provides the food,

food to assuage the weak, 

leaving the body hungry,

crying one last speech.


Bright moon finds swaying face

to hide and reveal again,

flashes of effort misplaced,

spun chance revealed, forsaken.


I have gone 

to husbands who were fathers,

I have gone 

to wives who were mothers,

wanting them to serve, solid food of better.

The plate they gave me was empty,

'though 'twas turned just so,

hoping I wouldn't notice 

broke finish mold and go. 


Brother and sister after,

forgot me and argued on how, 

when wine had been flowing so freely,

their cups were empty now.

Not agreeing with any reason,

they decided each other to slur,

the wine soaked into the ground,

no pool of bliss any more.


No one in this world, 

that loves its secrets revealed,

wants to know

the why of I am.

Even the Christ on the Hill,

was asked the source of his plan.


I am the secret son of faith

who chose a different stand,

following words inspired,

but written by human hand.


My temples you'll find in castles,

filled with forgotten men,

Each of them sacrifice,

food to man's growing sin, 

I am the one who goes on.

The one who should be condemned,

but I make the sleep of the world,

quiet

dismissive of kin.


One day the world

will go blind

and in blindness finally see.

The flame on my altar will fade,

and midnight will never be.


Till then,

I am always invited, 

false promise of life believed,

for I am the Christ of the Chamber,

these castles only I enter,

yet rule I both land and man.


My hour of worship is midnight.

The moon bright altar flame.

I am the hope

of forgotten men.

God in a world without blame.

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