"The Seeds we have Sown".

"The Seeds we have Sown;
The History of A Bitter Harvest"
(Idle Ruminations of one Spirit)


Fertile ground we were given, The Earth and all Its lands.
We spent our days in a Garden and there was peace in the hearts of Man.
We released The Hounds of Havoc, said that it was Eve that turned them loose.
But if one peeked behind the curtain; they'd seen men turning all the screws.

In the beginning it was ignorance, we'd just crawled from the caves.
We raped, we burned, we killed. We made each other slaves.
We stole from rightful owners and then called them second-class.
We slaughtered women and children, with fire and poison gas.

Yesterday there were The Martyrs and their blood did stain The land.
But how quickly we've forgotten, their sacrifices made in the name of Man.
They had a dream of freedom, of peace and Brotherhood.
But look what we've done with their dreams and the values for which they stood.

And then there is "The System" and It continues to grow.
It's made "The Dollar" our only God and greed the "status quo".
And see the seeds It's planted, a Bitter Harvest indeed.
Strange fruit, those bloody berries; those teenage killing machines.

There's the steady flow of drugs, to try and ease the pain.
To dull all of our senses, to never feel again.
But drugs are not the problem, the blame lies somewhere else.
It lies within a system that feeds upon Itself.

And what about the women? They say they've come of age.
They've learned to be just like the men; and oh, what a price we've paid.
Now no one keeps the home fires burning and our families; they lie in ruins.
Our children are a "lost generation" and there's madness at every turn.

Then we have our politcians, their elections; they sit and plan.
And all the while our loved ones die, on the shores of foreign lands.
And see the preacher, see him rant and rave.
He says he wants to save our souls; but first fill the collection plate.

But there is a "silent majority", a group that still believes.
I would not have said it if it were not so; for the proof exists in me.

I believe that for every drop of rain, somewhere a flower grows.
That even in our darkest hour; "the eternal candle" maintains Its steady glow.
I hear those muted voices, of the mountains, of the forests and the streams.
And I know that in spite of it all; God still lives inside of me.

Perhaps I'm but a foolish "dreamer", a writer turned loose with a pen.
But I believe that there's still a chance; a chance to "seed" again.

"A Voice"