Love Abhorred

What is this before me that I should see

It with my waking eyes? Is this some thing,

Some page of words made visible through

The ink of life, the blood of those unborn?

Such a thing were better seen as nightmares

Touch, that took shape, being, within deep sleep;

Such vulnerable state are we in to

So compare ourselves to those on this page,

Our lives touched by the sinister currents

Of our deepest fears. Now they come alive.
 
Shall this page of life exist without such

Consequences? Paid by those that condone

The logic behind it's colorful, yet

Deadly meaning?  Or shall they reason with

The nightmare made real with childlike

Play, so that like a shadow this king of

Death shall steal over our eyes with mists

Of fallacy, purge us of our virtue,

Like a vine does ensnare a tree, cuts

Of it's life, prevents what shall now never

Be. Oh that we could see. Shall all go so

Unnoticed? As the middle child's plight

In a family of seven; for though he might

Suggest or make known to the family

At large he shall never be given such

Charge as is his due; so he goes out to

The world where he makes new friends and puts to

Work in order to make amends for his

Lack of skill; the ungiven praise that he

Seeks from family shall in turn be given

By those of some other degree. So like

This man who is unnoticed, works ever

Still despite the true credit that is his due

Is the unborn child's plight. Yet not so,

For even he, unnoticed and un-praised

Has more chance to show that life within him

Than all those who have perished in the red

Sea of the new world. Such pain, oh mother,

Dear Mother of mine, shall I be so much

Trash, such litter as you may pick up on

A wayside curb, some tin can that may

Be thrown away and recycled by the

End of the day? Were not murderers more

Kind when they killed me at the age when I

Should enlist to bear arms? Were they not so

Much more willing to give me respect due

When I could fight, when I could it back at

them? Or is such a chance to frightening,

That they should steal my only change to sing

Out to my hearts content? For I could so

Outshine the fading star light by such

Songs that I perform, to become a flame

Quite bright, a sight for those left in darkness.

Such was the name of the child Jesus that he

Given such a chance could ever be so

Brilliantly lit by the fire's light. And,

To think, whats more than I've said, to think that

His own light was what set that fire to

Sway about in such a dance of color,

To array itself with life, clothed by the

Air it breaths, sustained by logs underneath.

How shall we walk forward if we cannot walk?

How shall we be upheld without those to

Uphold us? Our traditions kept without

The fruits of our love? Shall we descend to

The darkness that is governed by the night?

That causes such terror and such fright? For

 All fear that terror when most at ease, such

A loss of control that makes your blood freeze,

Now has us caught in it's deadly snare; death

Toys with us as though it were a cat. Now

We are at our knees, and know not where we

Are at. Forced to cry out for pity sake!

Yet only one can to our rescue come to take

The burden of our sinful mistakes.

So much is my thought concerning our

Plight. And to think that this song I, could, would,

Might preserve, this one simple task might give

Life to a single breathing soul, like dew

To a blade of grass; I should sleep if I

Could but save the life of one lost sheep

Inside the womb of one given cause to

Weep. For though such life be cherished inside

The world has it's way, it is so full of

Pride. How can we end abominations

We so very much abhor? To what end

Do we do so, what door can we walk through

In order to restore the dignity

Of man's image made perfect by the light

Of God's most gentle rays? For I am at such

A loss by the follies of man, that they

Should be forced by policies of greed to

Write their words with blood; we lack what we need.

To eat their children's hearts or else starve in

The streets; to be driven out of loves most

Kind sweet care by the carelessness of one

Single man. His sort already described

In the book of God, as the man who thinks

To build up his barns of grain and wheat. On

The mountains of those buried underneath

His bloody shoe. So the ninety nine do

Cower underneath his brilliant

Scheme; to conquer and divide the hearts

Of those that were deemed worthy to enter

Into the glorious light; now they but

Squabble, argue, discuss, and some do fight,

Spurred on as a mare at race; they do so

Resemble slaves who run apace of the

Hounds behind them, fearing the horrible

Sound that may signal their last few hours

Upon this earth. So does mammon over

Whelm our lives, divide us twixt ourselves and

Spurs on our pride. Is there not someone to

Take up the helm that might rid us of these

Few dogs? These rodents left for dead on the

Wayside that but corrupt and besmirch our

Lives by contagions and foul winds? Oh,

Could I but trust a man who would say so;

For to me any man is capable

By his own erroneous nature of

Falling down upon his face in the sight

Of mammon's gifts, it's tainted grace. So I

Now see from start to finish that bloody

Pen I spoke of before, is sprinkled with

The signatures of those that claim abhor

Ance to the very idea that life should

Fade. Nor can I with ease accept those that

Champion such atrocities through such

Faulty logic as this, that a choice is

But a choice, made by adults; oh! What bliss

Is gained in the death of my son? That I

Could be so cruel, unless I were not so

Driven by the one percent above that

Keep hold of time's lifeblood, that hint of love

Given out day by day, merely to keep

Me in line; Yet such is the world that we

Live in, for those sad and miserable few

Do take all, give in to their nature made

Wrong at the fall. And since we cannot trust

Them, nor their puppets, we find ourselves once

More where we started; we abhor the pap,

This bloody pap of paper run dry with

The nectar of youths innocence.  So lack

Of trust for those in power makes a waste

Trel of me in my unhappy hour;

Causes me such despair that as one fool

With hands unimpaired I shall sit back and

So fail my duty, my love, and Lord.

For without trust I am the one abhorred,

Made restless by the coming of night; where

I shall be tormented by the nightmare

That awaits sleep's vulnerable state.

Love Abhorred (C) Luke Bennette