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She was in the flower of life,

or so they said around,

when her love flew away.

They were birds of a feather,

looking for a shiny break;

old folks hated to say a truth:

they were young and simpler,

young as the sap of the tree

were they drew their hearts

believing it was their forever.

One was the amusing way

they used to talk and laugh,

sing, and drink, and befriend.

But soon they found out life

wasn’t just a flower to caress

and bask in its awesome beauty.

Even though they learned

the world’s sparkling ways,

and money began to grow,

in that which they thought 

was the selfsame  tree of life,

their woes went crawling

amidst the fineries of gloom.

Soon they gathered the feeling

love was not in their eyes or

in their bellies, or their dreams.

Or in the glory of boredom.

How best would they find

a way beyond their thoughts,

when they saw temptation

lurking behind the tree,

where success was fashioned

in a passion with the angry,

and the fast, and the furious?

He left this world still wondering

if life was made just for those

who claimed to call the shots

always lost in a forest of pride.

But he rather pulled the trigger

in a clear, shiny summer day,

rather than giving up their lives

in the silence of books and halls.

He sought to kill the mockers,

the hardhearted, the insensitive,

all those people for whom

his anger really had no words.

They found him without the city,

wounded, his heart corrupted

by the woe he never confronted

seeking the peace, the wonder

and the purpose of the need to be,

as glorious eagles do, and more.