A Fist of Clay The dusty tears of earth are shed Upon the soil where all have bled. The kings of sand debate their right When he who truly reigns is fright. All eyes are fixed upon the ground And thus see naught but dust abound. They squabble for a fist of clay And find their price too high to pay. They breathe in ravenous, foul air, Up from the swamps of vain despair; They eat the carrion flesh of death Miasmas of demons are their breath. These are the hollow hearts of night Who ne'er have known the inner light. They look for gain where joy is not And cause their feeble eyes to rot. These like symbols of an age, Like vacant words upon the page, Fill freedom's empty cup with dross, And what they give they count their loss. Reincarnations of cliche; Hollow thoughts displaced with rage, Inheriting the gossamers of the past, Contract a weary world's relapse. back home next

Copyright 1997, Kim Bowers; All rights reserved

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