The seventh day
by Steven Clotzman
It was cold and damp on that late December eve.
She was praising law as she sat beneath the trees.
And though the night was black, it could not hide what I was soon to see.
As she picked some fruit, she handed it to me.
It was in a world where relentlessness was just.
It was at a time when to live was quite enough.
And to know no pain was to not know God above.
Though she'd had a child, it was not shown in her love.
I was driven to her by a thing she thought divine.
I was out of touch with what most call peace of mind.
And though a prophet knows the limits to how much truth you can find,
like her child, I knew it was only a matter of time.
At the break of dawn, I was forced to face the truth.
It was early on, so I had not much to lose.
And in the passing of that moment, my life because confused,
as her raging love became the source of my abuse.
In a Southern town, they went ahead as planned.
They had found their king and they'd let him take command.
And though his voice was soft, he was not hard to understand.
As he wiped his face, there was still blood on his hands.
When the prophet saw the coming of the storm,
with the child, they both went squandering through the morn.
And I was left just lying there, hoping for some warmth.
When she saw their eyes, their seduction was not forewarned.
Then the sky turned black as they both remained in chains.
They could hide their tears but they could not hide the pain.
And with the changing of the guard, I looked to see who had been claimed.
And I saw her face and I spoke her name in vain.
And the wind blew from the east as I received the call.
I was on my knees but I'd lost my strength to crawl.
While distant in a mirror, I saw my rise and fall,
and a future that was left with just shadows on the wall.
And the whole damn thing it seems was engineered
by the businessmen and other profiteers.
And as they came to find that love is really fear
they rejoiced and sang, "the seventh day is here!"