Make ARES Proud...

Their song smells of steel toed boots
and tastes of gunpowder.
I watch as they bake the dove with rosemary and thyme, 
and serve the lamb with mint.

They laugh and joke.
None can hear the children scream...

With a smile, that would make Ares proud,
they talk of blood and death as the wine is served.
Such clean hands have those who touch nothing...

It is a game you see.
The pawns move and move and move,
then die...
But the gold pours in all red and sticky.

The wolves gather to the feast.
Cheered by the sheep who pay to see the spectacle.
And to the music of bombing and the firing of guns,
dessert is served cold...

I Hear Them Not...

The bell was ringing once again.
Cutting in its tone and taste.
Sounding out to all and none, saying:
"Listen, listen, listen..."

Other sounds play off the tempo of the ringing.
City noise...
Autos and horns...
Birds singing along with the night...
Saying:
"Listen, listen, listen..."

I stand freezing, alone.
The bells call but I heed them not.
I am beyond hearing.
Beyond listening...

These noises move and taste of yesterday.
They sound of emptiness and cold.
The bells ring and ring...
Calling.
Demanding I be something I am not, saying:
"Listen, listen, listen"

I hear them not...