There will be time to murder and create 
As there has always been. 
But for now this time is for the waiting  
To be a servant to that which comes 
Whether desired or shunned and 
to honor our planetary hospice. 

This is the time to dig a grave  
where we may lie, a culture of isolates.  
Alone with ourselves, 
among the soylent earth where our well honed thoughts
have been replaced 
with half truths and outright lies. 
In order as we have been promised, so we may rest easy, 
as we succumb to a life deadened by a dry grey sky 
which provides little shelter to where we may hide. 

Will we then presume 
that this is the measure of our lives? 
Where we amble through half deserted streets  
in search of Heaven,  
for a witness, or anyone that might 
be willing to mark this time with us. 
Alas, alone we find ourselves, 
permeated by the stench of our looking the other way. 

Lost at the horizon from where we came, 
without the courage or conviction to journey a new path forward, 
amid the burnt out forests once lush and greening. 
Searching for a place to lay our head as our barrenness takes hold 
and we retreat into the darkness of our forgotten souls. 
A dark so rich and wild with abandon  
that might house us all in true love  
and a faint promise of a new beginning. 

A dwarfish light appears just at the corner of
our thirst and imagination,  
threatening to end our precious isolation.
The only place we know offers the truth of our being. 
Sought after through those dark nights of pilgrimage, 
when we knew who we were 
and who we might be. 

There will be a time to murder and create. 
That time again, may be now. 

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