Waxed In Black

Richardson, Texas - December 1996

Of war and peace the truth just twists in circles, God, it glides, Upon four-legged forest clouds the cowboy angel rides; With his candle lit into the sun, though its glow is waxed in black, All except when 'neath the trees of Eden.        *

COWBOY ANGELS... Sometimes there ain't nothin' to do But sigh. Oh, but that won't get you thru the night... very often. And you know why you went, no matter what you say; and you knew that it was useless, just not right away... but shortly. Yes, they told you lies, deceived you, disbelieved you; but it was your own quest that let you down... in the end. You held your candle tightly, but Oh, the shells that flashed so brightly doomed and dimmed yours into black.

The foreign sun, it squints upon a bed that is never mine, As friends and other strangers from their fates try to resign, Leaving men wholly, totally free to do anything they wish to do but die; And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden.        *

TRIALS... Oh, brave new world when you returned, the cold hearts of strangers while yours still burned, memory of fire. The roar of cannon you loved and hated... pyrotechnic grandeur, hell unabated; isolation here. Secrets of that old life, the mysteries that you keep, faded photographs and such, knowledge burrowed deep, twist the knife. Doing this and that without much point; others have opted out long before this...but you'll wait... just to see what happens.

At dawn my lover comes to me and tells me of her dreams, With no attempts to shovel the glimpse into the ditch of what each one means. At times I think there are no words but these to tell what's true; And there are no truths outside the Gates of Eden.        *

NO WORDS BUT THESE... ...are spoken; No promises made but broken. Truth eludes. Meaning - is a death word, Judgement - kills us in the end. Why - is a tripwire, you cannot make amends for everything. You cannot buy your Freedom with kindness, nor by being cruel. Your god, with profound blindness, uses you for fuel, His magnificent fire burns. Cowboy Angel, promised Utopia, bound in the past, ropes of unsevered memory; your fate, at long last, is but what you are now.            

Copyright © 1996 James M. Hopkins

*  Bob Dylan
   The Gates of Eden
    © 1965