Moon at Half Past Noon

In the cold, stone cellar where the gold is piled,
The thief asks the priest for a blessing.
He dips the coin like a motherless child,
While outside, the village is guessing
Whose blood turned the river to rust.
The man on the hill claims he’s bringing the rain,
While he sweeps up the last of the dust.
He wears the heavy silk of another man’s pain.

The hungry rose up with a roar in their throat,
Demanding the bread from the table.
But the King put a hole in his own royal coat
And wept like a ghost in a fable.
“Look how they tear at my heart!” he cried out,
As he tightened the noose on the street.
The crowd fell away in a shadow of doubt,
While the master stayed warm in the heat.

The Three Steps of the Ghost

The master has found a way to be clean, A trick in the dark with three faces:

He is a Wall. “I wasn’t there. It’s a dream you have seen.” He wipes out the blood and the traces.

He is a Snake. He points at the one he has broken and screams, “They are the monster! They are the fake!” He poisons the well and the dreams.

Hee is the Lamb. He sews the white wool over his own grey skin, And stands on the stage like a holy “I am.” He calls his own cruelty a sin That was done to him, not by him.

The Screen and the Sword

Now the mirrors
are made of a glowing blue light,
And the armies are made of a thumb.
The billionaire prays in the middle of night,
But the gods he is calling are dumb.
He steals the words that the suffering speak,
He wears their scars like a prize.
He owns the mountain, yet calls himself weak,
To hide the cold steel in his eyes.

The Flip

At the end of the play,
it is always the same:
The one with the knife
shows his scratch.
He tells the world
it’s the victim to blame,
Then drops the lit end of the match.
He steps on the bodies to reach for the sky,
While we watch the performance and weep.
The innocent live, and the innocent die,
While the wolf is the one who can sleep.