The Bride (SLAM)

Grandfather doesn't wait
for his hands to catch up
with his fate
it's a shame
those hands keep twisting
and turning
and churning
with fears
and sneers
with tears
and years
wasting away with sheer -
obedience.

These dry bones cry
and wonder why
there's no amount of water
to quench the thirst of the "father"
each man so calls himself
with certainty,
and pride,
but what he doesn't know is he already died.
But not to himself, to the world
in a whirl
of empty emotions
and daily devotions
to the lukewarm bath
he never leaves.
These dry bones cry.

They weep in echoes
that all will hear
and jeer
with mere
ignorance -
like deer not even listening
to the shears
of the oracles
hunched over,
volunteers who are
light years
away.

It seems so cavalier
to listen to the auctioneer
sell his soul
to the ones he so
desperately knows
will soon take it straight
to the black marketeer.

So remember you insincere,
the ones who interfere
in only one ear,
far and near,
that this is the time
for the holy year.

This is the time
for the "father" to become the bride,
to attend the world premiere
of the only Father who ignores
each political sphere,
sabbatical spear,
that pierces the life
of the ones who don't hear
His river rushing,
His sons and daughters musting
for His love He so abundantly gives
for us to give away to those who are gushing
with blood and tears
and sweat and veneers,
with beers
and pap smears,
with swears
that wither and wear
and tear down the very walls
we work so hard to build up,

He is here.