Feel the widening crescendo,
hear the old, once-spoken things,
Time to crush the innuendo
Time to fix the broken rings.

Break the spell of wicked fixers,
We don't fit into your mold.
You can drink your fine elixirs.
You can have your precious gold.

How can we express the rage
for the injury inflicted?
Rancid cycles, age to age,
by the prophets all predicted.

Bloodless coup kills profiteers,
ending years of rigid stasis.
Word designed to wick up tears
brings a reign of symbiosis.

Visions deep within the marrow,
muscles flexed escape the foothill.
Spirit will accept the arrow,
hardened by the tempest will.

Rescued from the deep crevasses,
snatched up gently from harm's way,
no more mothers suffering losses,
all the selfless in arms' bay.

Like the boldest mountaineer
scaling death traps of Denali,
lofty airs consume the fear.
This could be the grand finale.

RCS 5-17-2007