Lightning sounded the anger of the living dead.

A child’s cry rings like the Liberty Bell
to sound the coming of enemies from the mother land;
to warn of the deadly blows she should send.

It was a dreary day when a child
finds the true meaning of life and the wild;
concept of survival of the fittest.
Where has man gone that the second greatest
gift of God may not live among them?

The child was born like all other babes,
plucked from the orifice to the mother’s womb.
The birth of a sufferer to his untimely tomb.
Though the child has not died a mortal end,
alive he dies; healing the wounds his love does lend.
Oh, love, bearer of the child, why do you kill
your own flesh and blood from head to heel?

“It was just play,” the child says.
“Play or no play,” the mother replies,
“I will not listen to your petty lies!”
The sound of woeful cries fill the dark night air.
The child, now almost a man, sits in the leather covered chair
and remembers that dreaded day of woeful cry.
Day and night he remembers to try
and make the best sense of his human destruction.
Oh, to know what the child sees of this generation.

No one knows and no one understands him.
The cold stares of everyone he feels to his limbs.
He shows none love and no compassion,
and he expects not any actions of sensation.
He wills to be love and yet he fears love:
the love he trusts he fears will betray.
Wondering till the end of his life like a stray.
He wills to love and yet can not do so.
For anger brews inside, which someday show blow.
Walking the street one will always see this child,
who knows the end of humanity is near and the close is the wild.

It’s the cry of the living dead.
It’s the cry of the lad strained in red.
It’s the cry of the heartless lad.
It’s the cry of the murdered and sad.
It’s the cry of the bell of death.
It’s the cry of the one in his last breath.
The child wanders in the woods forever more.
The reason has gone from the child, now an adult,
but the wisdom shall forever remain and achieve a good result.
The man, what was the child, shall never forget
the Lord of his will. At least not yet, not yet…
The day peace rings from nation to nation once more
is the day that this child exists without deplore.