Where lies our summers warmth
Too deep to make the cut...
Thus questions lacking answers even decent...
Unworthy to our ears...
The actions, and lack there of...
there they lie, for the record
Before us, the tombstone
Made up of page after page.
For the wish of personal gain
As from above, God weeps.
The grass was of greed...
The dirt of lead and uranium
The sky wept blood,
Washing clean the crusted oil
From the eroded stone.
"His weeping calls to us"
Said I, to the ignoring ears surrounding.
To busy were they lamenting
Over the grave now shifting
As poured down a hard wrath of Heaven.
Forgive me, this tangent,
As the summers warmth has gone from me...
Making me cold with a hatred so bitter.
Understand you, the will of your ways
Oh holders of power and ability?
It is of them which I speak,
It is of their impious folly
About which I rant on without rhyme.
Do your simple minds comprehend?
Or is the grass too high for my voice to reach?