Under the Mushroom Tree
Jonathon & Mindless
Disfigured faces invite tragedy
into a new world of war & warm welcomes.
The seed of violence grows
as it bursts into a forest of death.
The multi-colored rip-tides slide by;
yet for only a second unnoticed...
Winds begin to blow in a cool icy breeze
as the steaming water evaporates into ghosts.
Lead quickly spreads the deed,
& eyes get heavy with greed -
succeeding only later with never-ending sleep.
Hearts beat at the doors of love;
stubborn dirt rubs the pain in,
years of dirt that have came in:
just blow up, explode,
amazement in faces -
the emotion shown in moments...
Times when minds collide with addiction:
and our fiction becomes fact then,
rolls over to dirt, that now pollutes the sky.
Our ground zero prays that one day
a tree could sprout from the clouds...
It's an intangible soul I want to hold -
an aroma of despair but no visuals
to console the ash colored eyes
of a unified group of blind rebels.
The heartless comply to receive cold stones
pumping in their chests, lest theirs one
ounce of life left in their bones.
Oh, the disconnect of those
with hands clasped six feet above
the frozen ground, all dead in the air
and ascending into hell.
We'll remember it well, if heaven
ever enters this script in the
Book of Blood that's turned to dust
in the hands of the corrupt;
legalists who held the pages together
between red hands until they rusted shut.
What's concealed is only appealing enough
until it's revealed, and reality still
hasn't felt as believable as my ideals.
So what's all the hope for, people?!
We've stuffed explosives and
hollow steel with love
but guns, not roses win a war!
And from every saint there rises
a hundred sinners more.
This wondrous horror is an oracle
telling us of the future we have in store...
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