An Epitaph for the Photograph

The visual records you once made were true--
With filters, photoshop, you now are through
And cannot be believed. Your truths may lie,
Your lies look true--all trust in you must die.

The New Historians

When facts don't match my theory, I must act
And alter quotes so my protagonist
Will say what he must say--there is no fact
I will not change, ignore, beat with my fist
Until I mold and meld it to the lies
I need to tell to make the narrative
Prove everything that I believe--truth dies
Before I will accept that I must give
A single word of gratitude to all
I choose to hate despite the facts that prove
My theories, ideology will fall--
But I will never leave my Marxist groove.
In History the facts will all be rammed
Into our truth, and all the facts be damned!

Mont St. Michael

Mont St. Michael, setting sun
Worship well, now night's begun
Worship God, the Three as One
Mont St. Michael, setting sun

Pinks and purples, golden shine
Nothing in this world is mine
All belongs to the divine
Pinks and purples, golden shine

Tide is tugging water in
God will forgive every sin
Morning, back where we begin
Tide is tugging water in

Mont St. Michael, setting sun
Worship well, now night's begun
Worship God, the Three as One
Mont St. Michael, setting sun

Unfeathered Creatures

The sirens sing for me, they call me out,
They make me wonder, wander, make me doubt
With promises of beauty, tempting me
And telling me my life is but a drought.

I'm left to wonder: from what should I flee?
The sirens singing for me to be free
From normal life, from drudgery, from days
Of pointless work, responsibility?

They tell but half the truth--one half betrays
The ruts we reave from others' common plays--
And yet it blinds us from the beauties brought
To light within the everyday it flays.

I'm tied up to the mast so I'm not caught,
Yet hear to then report what I have fought--
I sing, yet always pay whatever's due--
I listen, then I do the things I ought.

I hear their music--what they sing is true--
Their singing wings my soul, splits it in two
And rips and renders me until I shout--
The sirens sing for me, they sing for you.