When sweet vanilla whispered my name

I saw the face of Jesus in a bag of pinto beans.
I saw the Virgin Mary on the bus.
I saw the tears of Gaia in a Dixie Cup.
I saw the open hand of Dagda in a can of tomato soup.

You will feel the hand of Lug on your shoulder.
You will smell J.B. Hood's hot breath of hatred.
You will see the fire of need in your own eyes.
You will taste the blood of your children in the pit-mine.

You will hear the whinging of sad old men.
You will hear the squeak of rust, the drops of vinegar.
You will hear shingles torn from the roof.
You will hear the torrent of glaciers melting.

I hear the sound of my own pulse.
I feel the ache of sadness burn in my chest.
I taste the sour bread of discontent.
I smell the diesel oil and Old Spice in my father's shirt.

The Bride of Christ read my palm.
She told me what she knew.
Her face turned gray as concrete.
Her truth, my truth, her dread, my joy and pain.

I walked with a small white dog under the moon.
I kissed a woman between her shoulder blades.
The moonlight bled in through the blinds.
I dreamt of sweet vanilla whispering my name.

Originally posted to ruleoflaw on Tue Jun 18, 2013 at 08:55 PM PDT.

Also republished by Badger State Progressive and Rebel Songwriters.

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