And we let the people roar against the tide,
the storms of ocean’s treach’rous ride.
Feet failed to pass before the throne,
all faults crowning a head their own.
The thorns of wrath, grapes for wine,
drunken stupor, for true peace pine.
The rabble roused the sleeping dead
amused and sad from things they’ve read.
From eyes of stone and hearts of flesh
they do atone for what they mesh.
Watercress fallen like tears from the sky
ignorant bitterness stifling a solemn cry.
Forgiveness rains from fiery mist,
upon the skin of loveless trysts.
The dead rise and fall, awake and sleep
as the living fly, full of tears to weep.