Trading Down, Folding Cash

 We dreamed of being golden men
  who met in dead of night
 our loins all girt with unstained steel
  our faces polished bright.

 But hatred in men's hearts aglow
  empowers darkest light
 tearing in to paradise
  on a powered flight.

 Where shields are seen as burnished brass
  where fall the walls before they rust
 where eyes are bruised by nicks of tines
  where man returns to dust

 The ferryman plies his dead-end trade
  with sticks to freight his loading
 careless that he'll never be paid
  his currency foreboding.

 The weighted soldiers mountain climb
  from bush to last ambush
 the drummer's roll has just begun
  when shove gives way to push.

 Truth tumbled like two troubled towers
  whose time had come around.
 Did any bodies notice
  when God walked into town?



(C) Copyright September 2001
Terry Bowden
All Rights Reserved