BROKENHAWKE STATION.....

1 - The Coming ; Prophecy

Walls of black burned stone,
tumbled out in haste
across the shadows and the dust
of the deserts final night,
a single stone,
a darkened arch above the ruin,
and a hawke sits frowning,
frowning out the corners of his eyes,
at mans last mockery,
his memorial to ego,
his epitaph to will.

Sun pushes forth with reddened fist,
through hells defiant maw,
pools of false water steam
in boiling currents of despair,
deluge of urgent dreams
to drown the screams of thirsty men,
breaking hands against the stones,
and far above the scene of chaos
circles wide the frowning hawke,
his eye trained far below the crumbled walls,
the grasping, clutching hands now
stiff in deaths salute.

Hail kingdoms of the mad,
blessed are your blind,
forgiven are your writers,
who leave no thing behind,
leave no trace
in the shifting of the sands.

And the Savior walked among the stones,
a sandal strap torn with forgetfulness,
His way gone,
before it was found,
His words devoured by starving men,
long after they had died,
their souls claimed,
their bodies turned to dreams;
the Savior and the rock,
monuments upon the mirror of the sun,
the deserts fire quenched
in a falling of scarlet rain.


2 - The Stage ; Maelstrom

A floating spar,
a drifting keg,
all hands below,
upon the splintered deck,
all hands washed clear,
in the grey and greening salt,
the sea weeps,
her long sobs crashing on
rocks slick with age,
uncaring to the sorrow

of its lonely mistress,
or to the swell of time,
her breasts wrapped in rotting wood,
her crown of foam and flesh.
Sailors pray for land,
yet curse the iron plow,
the Savior walked out into the waves,




His hand cast out,
the wet draining out across His palms.

Behold the sinking craft,
failure of the dream,
rapture of the broken soul.
The Savior laughs into the wind,
it hurls back a mocking howl,
forsaken not,
only forgotten among the roots
of a dying, sculptured tree.

Behold the man,
fused with the desert sun,
falling into the frozen cinders
of the oceans nameless dead.




3 - Golgotha ; Transfiguration

Feet crunching down on stone,
sun passing behind clouds,
their ragged tatters blot out the day.

Perched on His shoulder,
like a brown trembling leaf,
sits the hawke, frowning,
with deception in his eyes,
illusion spelled out in his beating wings,
and the Savior spoke,

His voice a dry harsh wind
and the oceans rolling surf,
extending to the dying
the hand of quiet relief.

Death by sun and sea,
seeking for meaning
from dreams to epitaph.

Silent,
witnessed only by the ants
crawling out the pyre of stone,
as the tree of life bleeds
crystal tears on the rocks
of this bleak desert ridge.
The Savior and the hawke
lay expired upon the branches,
as drowning men look up
and weep the salt of
their anguish and their pain.
His passage giving storm,
His dying leaving life,
in twisted circlets of thorn,
sour froth on parched lips,
quenching neither spirit nor thirst.

How is there forgiveness,
where there is no crime...
Destiny falls without concern,
as He dies without a sound,
save the shudder of the earth,
and the sea rising to the sky,
against the final flight of
the now lost hawke,
but
In three days hence He returned,
Defying death, thus saving man
For all eternity…..