"There's a man down here, somewhere between those Saturday cartoons and the dirty magazines, He's raising the dead in the graveyards where we've laid down our dreams and His name is Hope." - John Mark McMillan
Have you ever awoken to the vision of dreams,
Only seeing a sliver of light through the door's small seams?
And in those cracks comfort is found,
For the darkness alone would crush and drown.
What of the walks you have taken of recent?
Remember the bits and pieces of chords gone out of tune
Talking of sex, drugs, or a meaningless noon...
Then the man speaking of Love.
Bless that man!
He thinks True and gives chance to yesterday's gloom.
What of our things, haven't you noticed?
Stream-lined, trimmed, but cold and dead even still.
Yet many feel more for the screen, their letters and tones.
But have I not said what will come of such drones?
Yet The Hills still stand and take refugees
Fleeing their lives of angry misdeeds;
They live now between the cracks and become
The seams, leaking out light to those who need.
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