O, winged friend, pristine and pure
Please bend to my wish and cure
The bruises of splintered dreams
And horrifying screams.
Let me touch your feathers soft
Ah, lift me aloft
To a higher plane
Where there is no woe, no echo
With autumn hues the trees are ablaze
Demonic faces, hate and malevolence gaze
At me with fiery eyes.
The clouds guffaw in a raucous cacophony
Can a smoldering fire of hate create a symphony
The stench of gunfire
Belligerence and imprudent ire
Frothing at the mouth indignation
At all the wrong things?
Can we not hear the mockingbird which sings?
And see the little white dove
Moving around, lost and forlorn
Eyes fixed on the east
For the bursting forth of a peaceful dawn?
Let us listen to them at least.
Why boil in wrath misplaced
Why not allow all issues to boil down