The ferryman’s voice echoes in the mist
The waiting crowd gathers into a fist
Sheltering in the lee of the boathouse A-frame
Wrapped in a collective cloak of guilt and shame
Faces etched in copper and ferrous ache wrought
From judgement day to the lacklustre lessons taught
By the brass handles on the black casket shrouded
In a flag of fabricated lies by prejudice clouded

And Lucifer stands alone to one side
Unable to join the crowd nursing hurt pride
For who would listen to this ill-bred bearer of light?
What profits afforded for those who own the night?
To send forth those who have everything to lose
Those with hearts misled and unwilling to choose
Between the devil you know and the psychotic crews
Whose camouflage hides more than the magician’s cues

Poppies red blemish the chests of the mourners
Symbolism no measure for the world’s dirty corners
Where the cards are discarded hidden in plain view
Invisible to the many, a winning hand for the few
So the ferryman’s pole cuts an arrow in cold water
For departed marked crosses in the field of the slaughter
The crowd’s fist is torn by the falling widow’s cry
The mist knits a veil that blends with the sky

June 2009

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