Turning Over

We never thought that god would come and see

the damage left by all of his children.

Love intended, marred by desperate pleas—

Flight of the helpless from this false Eden.

A simple cry quickly turned to shrieking.

Go wash by the moonlight your sins and toils.

Grandmother watches from her chair creaking—

The children return with the devil’s spoils.

The fire of nine turns the wretched to ash,

Nothing left but the gray-black scars of death.

Eons to cultivate, gone in a flash.

The unlucky few cling to hopeless breath.

The children, the children, may they be spared.

May they find evidence that someone cared.



When the path is split

and I turn to go

my journey on my own,

I still think of you

along your road,

finding your way to home.


When darkness falls,

and lanterns light,

and trees begin to whisper,

I hope you turn

towards Nature’s words,

and become a better listener.


When dawn creeps

up over pine and brush

and sleepless feet continue,

I hope your journey wasn’t rushed.

I hope in the end, to meet you.