An incidental rain spatters across open pages of the Big Book Leaving temporary pits and wells that become stain with age. As if ordained, the wisdom hid behind the closing cover Caused the sky to suck-up – to stop tossing droplets at us.
The incidental rain wonders why we are lowered so this day, Where the feathered emit song and gray tails quiver behind the curious. But here, now, only the end of pain lightens the passing of the Servant Soldier; We cannot worry about the dampening of the day – let alone the book.
The significance of the hour is lost to the incidental rain I suppose. It is lost to all but us here, now, and the Servant Soldier we mourn. He was worn and all, which is worn, is brushed to the side; To the side, like incidental puddles wrinkling the pages of a big book.
The incidental rain causes the closing of the book, to protect the message. The bearer moves under cover.The rain stops - rifles sadly fire Three times seven, high into an indiscriminate sky, and trumpets, Wheezing, wash the air, as an essential teardrop tumbles from a distraught eye; Only to be cleansed by an incidental rain…
It Doesn't Matter
It doesn't matter if none believe how i feel I feel that way
It doesn't matter that there must be leaving Before there can be staying If there can be staying at all It's nice here now
And it makes no difference that the future of mankind Rests on the shoulders of those without heads I know this is not all there is
Because it really doesn't matter How coloured is a flower