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Days Of The New | Poem


Seen behind our dimensions of this
The willingness of our spirit
So to never reveal what is inside
The least of what is to kill or save
Never intended to be of the nothing
But always to learn of this
We still in our nature to hide
The tragedy burns us open
Filled with the anger of others
This wrath in which we want to oppose
Flowers of the death in us
Wilt with a passion to hold
All with the might
Let this all be
Never to let open of its demise
Rings of the hatred
We live not to die
But, only to survive
Let this place be given to them
Not only of the dead but to them who
Latch this moment in time
Special is this ground
Darkness which is set upon the
Lift the openness of what is
In the hour of nothing
For the power set within
Light the fire of sense
Be in what we see
Scene of tragedy 
For what is gone
Not to solve
Leave this to the open
What for the real to find
Lasting only to cease
Gone with the strap of hate
Flee with the guilt of us
Stay with the death of us
Burn with smoke and ashes
Taste when gone
Sleep into our dreams

- Robert Patrick Jackson

to Robert   /   to Moongate


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