The Gun promised paradise
in the pale moonlight
parables stuttered in the wind
no wise men to answer the riddles
or to guide us past the burning street lamps

A baby and mother both cry
as she presses child
to a dry tit of desperation
that once carried the milk of paradise
while somewhere a drunkard
with an empty bottle in hand
sings a song of dead and forgotten promises
Gold adorns the churches
alongside a tortured promise of paradise
while children poisoned and half drowned
on stagnant baptism water
grow hungry and sullen
Angry words
reflect off
broken souls

Cruel men tie
tin cans
to the tails of dogs…
©workingclassproduction.com, 2015