The Gospel, The Dharma, And The Breath
the darkened streets
haunt and whisper,
lights come and go,
eternity breaks the glass.
and right and wrong,
frozen on the ground...
smokestacks, abandoned cars,
vacant buildings ran by rats.
the hungry hand,
the mouth of poverty.
the addict's needle,
the body in the alley.
the woman beaten,
her face blackened and bloody.
the click of the hammer
on an empty chamber.
and the houses beckon,
with lighted rooms
where shadows move in
a most familiar way.
the smell of food,
and the warmth contained...
never quite reaching
the children sleeping
in the back of the car.
the churches gone dark,
no sound, no action.
down the street the bars
light up the night.
at a corner table,
he sits alone with a drink...
and a book he just opened...
he writes with a pen,
sure that no one can see:
we are the gospel,
we are the dharma...
we died on the cross,
we gave up our kingdoms.
we are the healers,
but the killers...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
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