Mark. A Heathcote Poems

The workings of a clock
It can be as mechanical as a stopped heart.
A wingless entity
Naked and caged propelled to flower.
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Crush the victims.
The homeless, the dispossessed
Jail the peacemakers, the protesters.
Praying that the starving see another loaf of bread.
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Let us find peace in death.
Live life as if it's got one day left.
The sun has always remained a pacifist.
As does the long shadow remain a warmonger.
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God comes howling. Children, what's going on?
I haven't rested since I hung the golden sun.

God comes howling; children, what's going on?
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The cup of water
Has a mouth for stars
In the shadow
Where a black hole
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Your fears and failures are just stepping stones
over not-so tranquil waters.
These are the places where you have frozen,
fearing your every next shaky step.
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I am attracted to the water that calls me
To either sink or swim,
I am attracted to echoes in the darkness
That whisper there's yet more personable beauty within
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There it is. Kids,
a white blanket with spots of blood
Crisp as salt on the blade of a stainless-steel knife.
In its purity, fresh as a daisy,
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Please leave nothing but echoes of love.
When everything is gone, turned to dust
This world will remember you, your shadow.
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When time is stilled and stoppered in your heart
An echo heard that might not mean that much
Shall a song to remember be imparted?
It'll ring in your heart of silence a touch.
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