The Trumpet Player, Plays his Trumpet

The trumpet player plays his trumpet,
it wails, weeps, in the deep, deep of the night
and the prayers of the saints,
and the hopes of the sinners,
sail on a cloud of silver wings,
they know with in themselves
that nothing will ever be alright.

And the children take their poison
looking for a different kind of dream.
The take their love and misery with them
as they travel to whatever pain lives beyond.
leaving parents and, teachers, and the wise
to drink their whisky, and wonder what went wrong.
and the prayers of the saints,
and the hopes of the sinners,
sail on a cloud of silver wings.

The bugles echo out so clearly
over the guns, and cries of war,
and the white knight and the dove of peace
in their tarnished, bloody armor,
ask the preachers, the prophets, and the philosophers,
in empty, hollow voices, what am I dying for.
and the prayers of the saints,
and the hopes of the sinners,
sail on a cloud of silver wings.

The violin strings are broken,
and the violinist forgot his bow,
and the children take their poison,
because they have no where else to go.
and the prayers of the saints,
and the hopes of the sinners,
sail on a cloud of silver wings.

The trumpet player plays his trumpet
it wails, weeps, in the deep, deep of the night,
and the prayers of the saints,
and the hopes of the sinners,
sail on a cloud of silver wings,
because they know deep within themselves
that nothing will ever be alright.

Posted by keeperofthesword on May 24, 2018

https://keeperofthesword.wordpress.com/2018/05/24/the-trumpet-player-plays-his-trumpet-2/