just a dream?
- Michael Sings.
by George "Papa" G.
I sat in the dark, along the bay; here by the sea,
dreaming of how life should be, when an old prayer was answered.
This old poet, a sage want to be, was visited by a warrior, an Angel.
A lone warrior that walks through time and realities,
aware of the oneness around him, he sang; he sings,
a Masonic mantra both melodramatic and melancholic,
and maybe even a bit macabre. Yet, the truth still rings.
A macaw named Martyr, sat on his shoulder and sang along, magnificently.
Dressed in a macadam of black silk,
and an ankle length mackinaw of lightless existence,
he brought grace to this place by Galveston Bay.
A mace of silver bright hung from a hip.
A machete strapped to his boots of blackest leather,
glimmered in the Texas moonlight.
The leanest, and meanest ever seen.
The sword he carries was forged by the "One's" word.
A Holy killing machine, a poet's oxymoron.
Machismo incarnate, with a handsome face.
A smile fluttered across his face like a hawk through the sky,
or a falling feather.
I was afraid of he and his blade. I prayed;
ashamed of my fear, I prayed and prayed.
Along my fire, he waved his hand and food was there.
Grilled mackerel on top of macaroni. Macaroons for dessert.
"The time is dire my friend, this will be paid with a simple rhyme or two."
With a voice smother than any lie ever told,
his case made;
my fear was replaced with disgrace,
just is the case when speaking with Angels, or so I am told.
"You are not mad old poet, Please do not be sad." Whisper he.
My manqué attempts at speech just embarrassed me further, so I stopped, and cried.
"This marvelous masquerade had its run, the darkness within you all
will soon have its try." Weeped the one before me.
"Hollywood fools, who produce nothing of substance for the world, support a Rapist right to rule; while appeasing abortionist. Such cowards have no faith in mankind." "Rightwing self righteous simpletons worshipping their gold and things, have lost their faith in the "One" above. And it will be the children who pay. It is always the children who pay." So play your strings; sing me a rime. We have so little time.
"Killing, dying, over myths and legends! Oil and Gold!
Where is the love for the "One" in those acts? Deeds? Killing your own seeds, over concerns for material things; claiming it a woman's right??? Has life no meaning?" sobbed this one. "Society' Karma comes, blight after blight. Each worse than that before. Each earned." "It has been my crusade for eons on top of decades, protecting you all; and, now I am told to watch and sing.
Once again your sin comes home. Tis' time to embrace your fate.
Have some class, some style. Mask your hate, swallow your pride and let the end ride.
Half hearted words, the company line said; done.
So sweet Magi, write for me this night
Aid me in being glad one last time.
Pen me a magnum opus of truth and hope,
while I sing.
It was here I awoke, in my own lonely bed.
Music still ringing within my head.
I slipped in a prayer to all the Gods above,
And asked for love. Metaphysical mercy is hard to come by, when
Faith is weak. Don't ya think.?
Was it truth? Was it Bourbon memories mixed with life's confusion?
Does it matter? Manes mania be damned.
Tis said by some that what will be
Will be. I say let it.
Before the axis changes and ice falls from the sky;
I will write and sing, just as Michael sings
Here by old Galveston bay.
Papa G © Saturday, March 01, 2003
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