Like the darkened crescent haunts the sky,
the dancer flames in shadow.
Fevered is her whirling step,
her edge gets ever narrow.

Like glacial winds that sting the north,
the fighter pines in silence.
Hard and swift, like knuckle’s bones,
a monster: born of violence.

Like gloom that clings to forests old,
the hunter stands in darkness.
His eyes sharp pierce through life and hide,
his slings death with morbid prowess.

Like needlepoint on which life stands,
the surgeon cries tears of pain.
With fingertips like bladed death
he watches as life wanes.

Like the desert sun that kills the earth,
the soldier has no soul left.
Mindless killing erodes his mind,
he prays to the God of death.

Like the farce of life we entertain,
the impostor which stands in our face.
Losing ourselves in trivial pursuit,
Man, has fallen from Grace.

Sing for me,