• Things that no one seems to hear
    Whisper softly to my ear
    Finding me in the dawn-lit hour
    While someone else would contemplate a shower

    The thoughts of all the outcasts here
    Around the world and many like deer
    That sing the same old quiet tune
    That probably was once written in rune

    The quiet ones, the warrior warners
    The silent could-be mourners
    Somehow they’ve been silenced
    Forced to bear witness to our violence


    Have you counted up their tears?
    There’s just as many as their fears
    For every fear you hide at heart
    You can be sure one of them shares it in part

    The power the human being craves
    Has forced so many to turn to wraiths
    But these are the few, the pure
    Perhaps they hold our forgotten cure?

    Not many see something quite like this
    No, their too busy pondering a kiss
    But when you see through open eyes
    The guardian angel beside you flies

    But by seeing in this new perspective
    You risk become quite the skeptic
    Can the human race be good?
    Well, they all know that they should

    So now we come to a large conclusion
    That you can see truth or illusion
    But either way, the outcome’s grim
    Because we all stand on this same rim

    The world changes as we speak
    Perhaps there will be a good change this week
    But now look at all the sad
    The miserable, the musty, and the bad

    Are these people that we think of?
    Because we see to be thinking of the rough
    Gritty, gross, grotesque and grimy
    Smelly, sulfurous, and slimy

    These words more accurately describe
    Something that we refuse to inscribe
    The human soul, that mythical thing
    The one people forget to bring

    Can this world continue on?
    When all we care for is tonight’s filet mignon
    Save us! Save us! Someone please!
    That’s what we cry, we might as well be fleas

    Annoying, selfish, leaching slugs
    That’s what we’ve become, simple rugs
    And yet there were those silent few
    Who watched the morning collect its dew