Salvation is a Dented Pen

The ocean slowly moves onto the beach
The sound of roaring, then calm
Roaring, then calm
The endless karmic revelation
Of fishing on the ocean
The water rolling between my toes
The unfinished bottle of burden strewn over the sand
Quenching the thirst of a thirsty sea

Can you hear it?
The sound of the symphony in the grass
Cleansing the soul of the mist
The fog clogging the senses
And controlling the life of a once great man
A true warrior poet
A mortal amongst a world of the invincible beings
The soul only found in a silent river

It truly is a miracle
The love of a Grandmother
A Southern alcoholic boozed by the world
Until the peacefulness of death
I guess that will be the eventual end of me as well
Insanity driven forward by the peace supposedly found
In the sober reflection of the world
Wasn't God drunk during the creation anyway?

Now we move onto another muse of world of existence
The graceful music of the martial artist
The beauty in the passionate art of death
The balanced act of salvation
Found in the humble nature of the achievement.
Achievement of eventual perfection
One that will never come
But is reflected in the discovery of the inner soul
Buddha with a righteous gun.

Jesus was a comedian
What could be more humerus that turning water into wine
The majesty of the yardstick of civilization
Found in the truly miraculous
The endless obsession of a billion obsessions
Found in the sound of the cork
And the soft spoken secrets
Of the Gods

Bob Dylan was never a poet
He was just a mere mortal
As only I can relate
A singer of no real words
Like the men of blues before him
That old black man
Sitting in the corner of the bar
With a whiskey by his side
A cigarette smoking between his fingers
The pain of lost generations
Crying out for the recognition
Of generations without a care
No no no
Bob Dylan was never poet, neither were they
He is a God

But what happens to that old black man
Does he end up in the eternal regret
In the hell of a loving God?
No I think not
For then what would happen to those voices
Quietly moving out through the night
Perhaps
Touching a new generation lost in translation

It is this sound that makes me wonder
Losing myself in an old truck
Trying to get lost in a country already there
Finding nothing but people who just no longer care
Buy coffee that has lost its taste
Soul without its wine

It is hard to put forward a thought in this time
A time where thoughts have been discouraged
In the faith of the possessive spirit
The economy of ones salvation
Now lies in the trust of those who serve the living God
The unjudgemental God
We don't need the lawyer soul
The Soldier or the bank
Salvation lies within that simple old man
That beggar with his bum knee

My soul is my dented pen.