Eleutheromania (and other words that don’t exist anymore.)
There is a road that cuts
Past lakes, over hills, and across plains
and the rain waters are cupped
In the boot marks that remain.
Salvation raining from the veins of men
Has long since soaked into the ground.
Where passerbyes can see lovers kissing and often
Catch more than just the sound
of wildlife. Before too long the town will pave the road
and the memories which marched there.
No one is left to receive what is owed,
and the responsibility is too much to bare.
The town, and its folk, are considered free
by all the men of the world – except for me.
At noon, the clock chimes for the dead
Signalling the lunch hour for the living.
They pass the church, in search for bread
There’s nothing left for the forgiving.
Families gather next to empty chairs
Belonging to people captured in pictures
That fill the space going up the stairs -
Perpetually imprisoned wall fixtures.
Brother spills tomato soup when it burns his tongue,
Sister is trying to get momma’s attention,
But she is yelling like a gatlin gun
about mistakes and intentions.
Yet, folk in the town are considered free
by all the men of the world, except for me.
