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The Calf

Updated on May 17, 2012

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

Look for me on Facebook, Myspace, and Digg


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