Keep A Light On

Clouds cast their last gasps, bright

against the grey fading light of coming night

as the tan sun sprays her last rays

over the dying sighs of the leaving day.

The cutting air slices down to bone, binds

your pain, a cold wind, mean, like the minds

of the crone old men who rule our world,

minds full of themselves, or boys or girls,

or anything else they can use, or take, or break,

or make use of to keep hold of their power.

In this cold and bitter wind, all the bright flowers

will fade and die. You and I will see them fall.

We see them now, each night we watch them all

cut down by bombs and bullets, under wheels,

beneath the endless stamp of old crone heels.

We cannot stop coming nightfall.

We cannot stop this world at all.

We cannot stop this miserable weather,

but you and I, all of us, together,

we can stop the old men.

We are more than them.

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on Pexels.com