By Michael Quinn
This glass o’ wine (is home)
It ain’t my own
As I feel the walls of stone cold.
There’s a shadow behind
Creepin’ up on time
All has vanished from below.
The solo guard
Wearing his old star
Eyes pierce through the back of my brain.
His baton in his hand
I get up to stand
Sun dries the last drop of the rain.
The sacred lady of royalty
She’s smiling dear to me
And I can barely lift my head.
She rolls in flowers
Says she’ll share her freedom powers
She can hand me the thorns instead.
And she promises to me
The sands and the sea
As she graces the Holy Beach.
But despite footsteps in time
The heart and mind, confined
Keep all that far out of reach.
Long faces in the air
They shake and they stare
Offering observations and theories.
They offer their hands.
Can they understand
Freedom’s modern complexities?
You can tell me times over
I’m no weight on your shoulders
But there’s another burden taking its toll.
What’s happenin’ my friend
Is futile to try n’ comprehend
It ain’t a story too often told.
Ren Michael 