Things Behind the Sun

Hurricane,
Endless test of time...

Said the birds of the hill,
"Little known the ways of man be,
That we may die and you may see
And stop it not though you know it wrong.
Ye may just yet stop and think
That maybe all the killing be
Something bad that sets none free."
But they may listen never, for they want naught the little birds alive
They want but life for themselves
And to witness the unknown behind the sun.
How may anything be left to chance,
Like the death of another or the life of a bird?
Is it right to be a dead man in a time of unrest?
So it may be said the birds may burn to those who see,
And little may they understand or care
Because the birds are different,
And they don't speak their language.

Return to the beginning
Of the Hurricane.

AHHHHH!
A fright in this dark end of the world
That splays the comfort of home and family.
Going back to the television, or radio,
Unknowing and believing in the solidarity
And content of the American household.
Direct result of murder in their sleep.
We know this violence
We know it's shadow,
It's name,
It's place and time.
Why do we die?
To heed warning to those oblivious?
Nay, we never die for any reason.
We just
End.

Set in stone, beyond the light,
Is spotted dark...