Fury accompanies what little is futile
in a fertile land of fertile stones,
wrought in the fashion of old kings
bent on providing a bounteous future
for their unbound cattle made of
bottomless greed and insatiable hunger--
in the style of him which will
forever tinge what little can be with less--
that flocked and flanked the sanity
that encompassed the people's hearts,
what little could be accredited to sorrow
was left up to the hands of bounteous bludgeons,
such as one could find in the hands of a killer
whose life has been threatened by the Merciful--
the ones who carry Light in their hearts
and have sought Beauty over gore--
offering their ever-growing Love to his soul,
which stares blindly downward,
where his grave should be forgotten,
since his life has been meaningless
and his Love Empty, full of a deep Void
as was once written in a forgotten tongue
that spoke valiantly of what could be offered
by an extended hand and a heartfelt grin
of desperation that cannot be hidden,
not knowingly cast down into that very same
Void that shatters hearts and throws them
to the valley where they tumble down,
as the earth belches forth impure souls
into their cores and they arrive on the land,
where so little is dreamt of and so little is loved
and carried upward, heavenward,
where goodness lives and triumphs and laughs.
