Out in the California desert, they hid.
The man. The woman. The lonely kid.
An old abandoned mansion. Old grace.
Came to rest, to escape, in this old place.
A nymph living in the dried up river bed.
In the kid’s ear at night, cold, sweet said
“The end comes a thief, comes unspoken.
The desert is just a sigh in a laugh broken.”
The man, the woman, not Adam, or Eve,
children of men, unquenchable fire believe,
trying to rebuild Eden in hard, cracked soil.
But this world of men, of hope, always spoil.
The owl, predator and abductor, in cold suns
calls down the mice for the devils it never outruns.
“We horde the seed and the blossom, second life.
We take your children and changelings fill your wife.”
The man, the woman, are not free in the dry plains.
There are not coming fires or angry, cleansing rains.
The saucers, the angels, demons and God we’re there.
The poison was in the hope, in the clean, harsh air.
The wolf, the child of Satan, scorns stray dog, bare teeth,
The stray runs into the night, the wolf’s domain, to grief.
“Hey young one.” The strays says. “God’s children burn now.
But there’s a pinprick of sweetness when you make the vow.”
The lonely kid looks to the city. Hides a magazine with a girl so pretty.
The wolf chases the stray around the sky, and us, whom angels pity.
The girl has long dark locks, soft eyes, and her body is pale and bare.
The angel sees the rocks soil where love blooms, what thorns it must share.