Post by AquarianM on May 27, 2006 at 3:31amIn The Desert Of Souls...
Original poetry and tenor saxophone score by Daniel A. Stafford, (C) 05/27/2006
In The Desert Of Souls...
I was born in a garden lush, a place battling weeds and killing beetles - seeming to win.
Moving forward was slow but steady, life was progressing toward a field of green,
perhaps a place of utopian dreams, so it seemed.
It was late Summer and the locusts were gathering somewhere out of sight, laying about the country awaiting September like a gathering dark cloud of evil.
On a day called 9-11 the dark clouds came as the heat erupted everything in flames,
stripping the body of flesh and laying the decay bare in everyone’s sight.
No one really knew where the insects arrived from or how they came here. Was it a slow gathering of wayward bugs? Was it something more sinister, monsters in gray suits with pockets full of larvae and an extermination company?
After the towers fell, the angels of anger swarmed in, swearing vengeance like beasts with faces of fire. They would go to where they claimed the locusts came from, and burn everything, scorching the Earth until nothing was left but glass shaped in their image, the one they held in their mind.
They led the blind around by sweet words, saccharine sayings and promises built on pustulence whipped up and disguised. All the while, they were sucking up souls like a mighty vacuum.
The nature of existence was changed as liberty flowers were uprooted, burned and the ashes thrown into the dust bin of memory, labeled as food for the insects that could not be suffered to live.
As the world of the free was swallowed up by the desert and the sandstorms of anger threatened to bury everyone from friend to foe, the roots of the evil beast were uncovered and exposed.
Laid bare one by one were the evil deeds that threatened to steal all life from the Earth, would leave her a barren rock circling the sun like a hot black cinder if they could.
The children wander the desert, their eyes seeing the signs but some were still sucked into the trance of devil voices, speaking of love and freedom and peace that needed the dealing of death to happen.
There are many who cry foul, who remember the path to the garden, and the courage of independence and working in harmony with the nature of Earth.
Their voices are like the tide rising in the ocean, waves crashing upon the shores of the desert of souls, carrying the seeds of life and love and liberty that only need life and love and liberty to happen.
The question still stands: will the demons of anger and fear drown out the truth, or will the people awaken and steward the world in the gentle breezes of love and faith and community?
Will tomorrow bring healing, or the flames of the desert spreading to all the Earth?
By: Daniel A. Stafford