The Hangman's Hands


In the big world
the big words
sometimes
come useless
like many crafts
many times
the people speak
in small
utterances
while the
monsters
speak volumes
of OIL
and Lust for power
I love flowers
and writing
wonder if people
can still speak
the language of love
most times
I feel despair
at the
burned out way
you talk about humanity
Like it's all over ...
the place...
But tomorrow
the empty nest
will have flown
and humankindness
will have gone
the way of flowers
some kind of
history lesson
in  beauty
if we don't speak
up now.
Our voices
mingle with
the last of the roses,
they are climbing vines
that crawl over the hands
of the hangman.