Lonesome Refugee's Song Poem by Eric Cockrell

with purpled rage i strike the page,
with words i cant contain.
whether to justify or testify,
that lives be not lived in vain.
all that's strange, the cry for change,
the burned out buildings moan.
the tried and true, the old and new,
the lonesome refugee's song.

no need for preacher, or well paid teacher,
this blade against the wheel.
no vain illusions driven by confusion,
let us speak of what is real.
the blood stained hands of arrogant man,
that cannot be washed clean.
the hollow greed that takes from need,
the faces that haunt my dreams.

the cost of war, capitalism's whore,
driven by the oil that kills.
human rights, the common fight,
against those who take what they can steal.
the unborn child of meek and mild,
will never know the breast,
while pawns disguise the truth with lies,
hiding the sins they wont confess.

black and white, but day and night,
the blood of both runs red.
i hear the voices, the price of choices,
hear the lament of the dead.
religion's drugs, the fearful hugs,
can no longer fill the bowl.
the bodies frail, starvation's hell,
leave marks upon the soul.