Emancipation

The crackles of dawn, and the eventual morn,
Bring about such immense upheaval,
Who could find it a strain, with the weight of my veins?
So I begged to those without fever.

If I were a tree, and blessed would I, could deny any feelings of shame,
So as it were true; And you could do what you do?!
This is not anger; this is pain!

So just disappear or make yourself near,
Or do whatever it is that you do.
But harm me no more; let me bleed no more sores,
You can’t touch me for all I berate, you're touch can no longer liberate.

For these feelings of scorn, mentioned only at dawn,
Had described all concerns of my peers,
And I laughed at the gaze of that wicked man's haze,
As I watched as he was forlorn.

With the picket fence erect, and his post was adorned
With fascist dictator’s pleasures,
And despite all my rage and the inevitable praise,
My soul could not avoid his allure.

My presence was told and held it resent, until captured, tortured and controlled,
The scientists praise along with his gaze, was nurtured, recumbent and re-sold
To the last buying merchant of souls out of time,
He sold his soul to the devil, yes!
Beelzebub’s claims are far too insane to be anything other than fable.

Just this last open healing, and blessings and feelings,
Don’t distinguish between all we discuss.
For I will be sub serve, as you will again deserve, all
The trust and the hope of the needing.

Let me languish in love, let me drink its fine fluid,
And please do not ask me to stop,
For I am a sentient, respectful, obedient,
Do not treat me like I am a slave.

Desire not for freedom but crave for some justice,
A reminder that we are not lost,
Only found again, it needed no doubt,
For we have become disgust.

A painful sore on the backside of shores,
The beaches our gods dwell in their summer,
And with some distress, i announce this is a mess,
And honour our guest with their arrival.

Suppose for one moment that all was not lost,
That we had the power to change?
Would our change be the best, could we spell out the right?
The truth of all of our people?

Should we laugh at ourselves, like the jezebel’s?
The libertines, and the oppressors?
Should we stand, side by side?
And with nothing to hide, open handed
Sit around the table?

We could talk more than words, exchange more than gifts,
Could we understand each other so proudly,
But sadly the truth that is so painfully real,
Is that there is no place no nearer than here.

EyeCeyE 2007 (Iain Cockhill) XxX