Flowers of the Pride

What pride we all take in shining forth glory
the magnifi-sense of God’s light walking within.
Ever reaching for the paradise we lost some how,
convinced that our own is the only “some way”.

Starving child can barely crawl in the sand,
sunken eyes crying, so dry there are no tears.
Twin vultures life and death watch close by,
one wants a carcass for food, the other for a picture,
pure suicide turns, denying Buddha walking within.

Old and young crucified in their hospital beds,
chained to morphine, waiting for precious life to end.
Flowers of pride seek to shove the Jesus walking within
down everyone’s throat, or else all death called pure suicide.

Woman toils in a field of wheat, corn and missile silos,
men blind, unbelievably busy talking through their teeth.
Screaming giant war planes bombing like crazy for oil
chanting Mohamed walking within deemed pure suicide.

Astounding how endlessly we war over who is the best,
whose glory is the prettiest, who can jump the highest.
Each and every war the shattering pride of pure suicide,
our own elite naught more than dead men walking within.

Before Hitler’s poison of hate round the swastika turns.
Up there, I strive and at last I see the crucified Christ,
and want to know where is my new piece of spirit;
for even the Dalai Lama in all his crimson glory
cannot ride the sunhorse whist sitting on the fence

About lucille falcone

Lucille is a freelance writer and web designer. My websites are , and

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