frantic, panic..

The seeds of death within me are in haste.

Not "good death" that will wait, and rest in peace,

but stealing, murder, and destructive waste,

and restlessness that strives and will not cease.

The whining of this thing brings no good wine

from harvesting of fruit and treading well,

these bags of skin would all stay on the vine

to not lose their identity, or smell

of being lost inside a fam'ly tree,

this giving blood to make the wine vat full;

they want their DNA in ev'ry seed

to be traced back to them, but they would pull

right back from tracing their own heritage

from all the line that gave their own to them.

Thus their hypocrisy has no courage,

this kind of death and fear must be again

quite simply faced and slain, and full rebuffed.

Denied a place to trace it's fears and play

around as though no god could see enough

developed or created in a day -

which for such god might be a thousand years

(and each of them might be another day).

God's time's not full because of likes or fears,

such time is full when love has had it's say!

And when the Earth is ready to hear more,

and when I'm dead to my own kingdom's growth,

I see that he'll bring out what's been in store,

the fullness of his time, will show his trothe.

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