places
hidden places
places
without names
or
ways to return to
where
the smell of spring
lingers
in uncut grass
and
meadow flowers
where breathing
was
easy
and
footsteps
fell silent
on dirt roads
sounds
heard
small birds
and
a choir
in an old
country church
hymns
from voices
that
have long passed away
to
other places
also
hidden
now when you hear old gabriel blow his horn don’t you mess around trying to avoid your judgement day just spruce up a little bit and don’t you have one of your hissy fits won’t do no good so just admit to your good times and casually mention the bad ones so as to show the folks upstairs you ain’t no fool and quite willing to repent tho the hour’s done run late to make your case for heaven but as people often say every little bit helps
any final words that should be heard to commemorate the empty life you’ve lived perhaps a comment or two of how you ignored your conscience in lieu of personal gain oh i know it’s a common refrain but i just thought you could clarify how to be bought for those seeking to replicate your splintered existence such devious ways are rarely recorded as a firsthand account generally some biographer cleans the whole story up removing all the juicy parts for historians are the whitewashers of society who make the vision of heaven not only palatable but perceived as possible and i have heard that employment of historians is projected to grow 6 percent from 2012 to 2022 of course that depends on who’s elected when and where it could become a highly sought after profession
play the music heard as a child melodies floating on summer hours while we foolishly stare into the sun daydreaming of loves to come stumbling forth sunblind onto tomorrow’s path eyes squeezed tight so as to refine the focus only to find the blindness to be permanent we cannot see evil so we continue to sing what many called foolish songs of faith wondering all the while if our voices could be heard inside the walls of heaven
