On narrative poetry: God cries

blue strides, red eyes

his kid on his shoulder.

blue strides, no life,

hands darker and darker.

blue sails, red wails

Death was beyond him.

blue sails, no fail

did he shout at the heavens:

"we are all but broken toys,

broken toys of a cruel god!

broken toys, broken boys,

broken waste from up above!

we are all but broken toys,

broken toys of a distant god!

broken dreams, broken screams,

broken whispers of a man gone mad."

yet he moved forward; blue strides, red eyes,

blue sails, red wails,

blue strides, no life,

blue sails, no fail.

"mister, what happened?" asked a passing shadow.

"my child, my child, hanged himself for love."

"mister, how sad, now where do you go?"

"my child, my child, I'll bury him in the morrow."

and he laughed

and screamed

and laughed

at the heavens.

he laughed

and squealed

and laughed

of his burdens.

"we are all but broken toys,

broken toys of a cruel god!

broken toys, broken boys,

broken waste from up above!

we are all but broken toys,

broken toys of a distant god!

broken dreams, broken screams,

broken whispers of a man gone mad."

"am i mad, am i mad?"

with blue strides he mused,

and walked off the road

to that red light that oozed

a whisper, a familiar one,

coming from not far away.

"here i am now, father,

and here now I say:

you are not broken.

you are sad, that is all.

your god isn't cruel.

he's there, up there, crying as we fall

to the shadows of fate,

that he said to me.

he is crying, o father,

as you cried for me."