Let me count the numbers,
As I contemplate the silence.
Let me flow through a brighter realm,
Above the ticking violence.

Time passes on the coldest stare
Exploited by harrowed lips.
Emotions toiled and withered,
Expressed through fingertips.

No more calling of the morning birds,
Just the heart of dying.
That evaporates my slightest kiss,
Placed on a world’s mute crying.

Here we were the chosen ones
Caressed and given freedom.
To blood, to arms and damned truth,
We split the throats of heathens.

Ourselves reversed on mirrored pride,
As we looked ahead to dreams.
Of Paradise on a lapping shore,
Running threadbare at the seams.

Art, it tried to teach us,
One run at a joyful dance.
We could only break us,
Blow guilt at circumstance.

Yet still I count the numbers,
Of all that went before.
I am left alone here now,
To record the final war.

November 2001

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