We only think we have a different story to tell, but they're all the same; just old blasted, worn-to-the-nub tales; (Even a genius can think he's God.)
Our minds needn’t lead us through to our history’s end; It is our hearts, the bloody, wildly beating, throbbing heart! Not the brain with its monotonous weak-kneed glimmer. It is the heart that must lead, take our hand and guide us out the valley of our own shadow.
The heart, not our intolerantly pricked ear or roving eye Or arching want against the smack of unholy greed, and most certainly not our capricious and foul-fickled-soul Stumbling for deities like some inebriated son-of-a-bitch!
We need our hearts to direct us safely `round this gorge. The heart knows the outside of its host; it knows we’re not fit to strike a goddamned match, That we’re empty outside of it.
The heart knows that war may signal our end and that collateral damage is a coward’s phrase.
It is our hearts, not our minds; Our rotted head makes sport of death and our lean souls tease the dwindling wit, pokes, jabs at our churning gut beckoning it come sit heavy upon our will.
Our hands, feet, arms and legs Are only told to move in rage when the heart’s gone missing.
but they're all the same;
just old blasted, worn-to-the-nub tales;
(Even a genius can think he's God.)
Our minds needn’t lead us through to our history’s end;
It is our hearts, the bloody, wildly beating, throbbing heart!
Not the brain with its monotonous weak-kneed glimmer.
It is the heart that must lead, take our hand
and guide us out the valley of our own shadow.
The heart, not our intolerantly pricked ear or roving eye
Or arching want against the smack of unholy greed,
and most certainly not our capricious and foul-fickled-soul
Stumbling for deities like some inebriated son-of-a-bitch!
We need our hearts to direct us safely `round this gorge.
The heart knows the outside of its host;
it knows we’re not fit to strike a goddamned match,
That we’re empty outside of it.
The heart knows that war may signal our end
and that collateral damage is a coward’s phrase.
It is our hearts, not our minds;
Our rotted head makes sport of death
and our lean souls tease the dwindling wit,
pokes, jabs at our churning gut
beckoning it come sit heavy upon our will.
Our hands, feet, arms and legs
Are only told to move in rage
when the heart’s gone missing.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman