Tell Me Of Your Dreams Child Poem by David Lacey

Blood pyramid rising
Stood before the Christ child crucified
The solar god is dead and dying still.
Fresh from the kill.
The temples erected in his honor are sour in grandeur,
the mason’s secret concealed
Solomon's temple - Solomon's Key
Where are the prophets of our age?
Left to rot behind locked doors?
Labeled lunatics and forgotten.
Beggers are the merchants of sympathy?
Give them gold for the story told.
Take me now to a world where I can feel myself as real.
How many life’s have we lived within each others arms?
Tell me of heaven?
Tell me of hell?

The clouds are moving spectres of freedom at rest.
Barefooted, adorned in the rags of decadence
The faces of the hillside are grim - relics of an industrial age.
The dales and peaks arise before us
Tell me of your dreams child?
Elated - visions blurring towards fantasy fulfilled
The clouds are heavens forming
There is a break in the dance unheard.