MARCH the girl in black strips and she temps you with a promise of a calm between her breasts. show you the door to the kingdom she says she’ll let you take a peek before the rain comes to drench us all. if you take that road there won’t be a place to rest. in that maze you’ll eventually forget. i saw a love go down swingin. i felt the tight grip of its death as it choked me there. i wept in the hallway like a hungry baby as the girl gathered up her things i waited for her to take the keys off her chain. she dropped them on the table. she said “for the next fool to inherit”. on a sunday afternoon before me grief was pointed like a gun. can a mother find forgiveness for the bridges burned by reckless sons. can you tell her what seeds i’ve sown. the soil’s gone muddy and it smears. the end came swift and eight years gone. the saints of MARCH have been martyred in a farce. the pain of MARCH sounding in my head an alarm. are you feeling endangered? got a phone call from hell but i got nothing left to sell. carried my ills to the top of the hill, and stared into the past as the devil let spill in his mournful language of discarded things the boy in black said “you’re gonna pay for all of this someday”. in a lonely corner the fire’s a lovely but twisted thing. in a lonely corner dividing freedom from loss which direction will you be heading. lend me a cigarette and i’ll trade you a light, ‘cause you got things to burn and i’m ready to ignite. i dreamt a sled turned over in the snow. i turned to look but the rider was nowhere to be found. all these lost children just drifting around and tanks rumbling from the east with their guns baring down. i ran and shouted a warning. but it’s too late now -- red streaks on the white ground and bodies picked apart by the hounds. and may god grant us mercy for all that we have done. once the sun set their fathers they roared and their mothers they screamed. the sound they make it pounds at our doors like a typhoon ripping through the streets. the strange things i recall as i wake from my sleep. the saints of MARCH have been martyred in a farce. the pain of MARCH sounding in my head an alarm. are you feeling endangered hunting for a soul on the island to save your own? carried my ills to the top of the hill, where the devil he swore he’d take my love from me when the time’s ripe for disaster. pretend to make the deal. when he turns away let’s make the kill. i ventured down the aisle to a desk filled with clutter and i’m rummaging for a reason to rejoice. joined the ranks of men too busy buzzing in their hives. walking past their infants and walking past their wives. and there it came cutting through the noise -- in a squeak of a tone it spoke “sir i’m sorry for your loss”. she hung up and braced for the next call. these swirling thoughts of MARCH are never too far from our troubled minds. from the peaks of the towers to the tunnels beneath us. in the curve of her spine, in the pale of her face they stood there like sign posts pointing to the end of the road. if we happen to disconnect promise to come right back. i’ve got a million more stories to tell. the fallen lick their wounds and start to revive as the armies turn back to retreat. the harlots take the pedestal to preach. the poets have lost their will to speak. the blindness struck us there was nothing to see. someday i shall make my peace with the ones i have broken with, the ones i’ve deceived. the saints of MARCH have been martyred in a farce. the pain of MARCH sounding in my head an alarm. are you feeling endangered in the warmth of an embrace? odds are against me but i’m still on the chase. carried my sins to the top of the hill and looked to the horizon for a cure for my ills. grown tired of disaster. if i stumble so be it. i’m a crawl to the finish line.....i’ve got a picture of the island. there a girl faced a blank canvas that spanned the length of my world, yes my heart’s in the palm of her hands.