The Calf
The Calf
Oh, feel the bleeding spirit
of my three golden hands.
My imperfect,
my resurrection,
the light from my oil lamp.
The coldest was discovered
in the words of a man.
The cruelest visions were shown to me,
the beating of the hands.
I saw the pounding on the innocent
blameless as a lamb.
The spirit of the creature
stolen from woodlands.
They tear him hollow for a dollar
leave him attended by the cruel.
He was slowly moving lackrymal
to tired to escape.
My heart is a sea of agony
Oh, the images of that place
an empty place to swallow
now that I know his fate.
My light is driven weak.
I am a wilting daffodil
bending in the sun.
Helpless I wilt.
No saving hand did come.
The beating hands on soft flesh,
have broken me down at dawn.
Trunks and branches fall
crashing to the ground.
An affair that was just an incident,
a cast of glory in the wind.
My bleeding soul has tired me.
Policies of sin.
I watched the helpless from far away
unable to comprehend
the deplorable cruelty,
and the grievous end.
Plumage from the skyland
nesting in high places.
Can you see the bodies
frozen in the cases?
Watching swarms of evil,
furnaces and flames.
The bodies of composition
precious in your sight
die in the hands of a cruel man
to digest in his cavity.
The open abcesses of their pain
sold in delight.
Communicate to me the tide
and swiftly draw me in.
If I cannot save the calf from this
I will have no peace within.
By Joanne Kathleen Farrell
author, political writer, and poet
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