Still the silver rain drops fall,
on their journey down from heaven.
While those around stand in the hall,
a silver clock is striking seven.
And time, end all, will make us even,
our eyes and ears to dust;
in each dream and in each seam,
to this end we’re pushed.
Into powder—then like smoke, away,
as tears for those beyond the grave;
melting too like ancient clay—
a fire in the woodshed burns the same.
What’s behind the sword & fire?
Straight from the womb to fall;
burnt phantom figures on life’s pyre;
as we pass through the hall.
Pull up those hands, and down, again,
inside not touched by lightning, thunder,
remake what’s holy, erase our sin,
undo the human blunder!
Yet the world around us rolls, and like,
we’re one bubble in the sea;
to go away when death invites,
we fall like autumn’s leaves.
Could we supersede this,
and get off the wheel at last?
And see a lighthouse in the sky,
before we by it go by?
Life and death, both end, it’s said;
we all walk the hall.
Singing, dancing, eating bread,
hearing the master call.
brandon the writer | author & staff writer for sir swag 