The Final Song
With the clarions call rising like mist from the stale organic air
There came forth the sound of orchestral music
from the depths of the dark spirits brooding lair.
Harpies recoiled and heaved with each staccato achieved,
As a bass boomed forth, calling unto Pan to bring out his tibiae.
With each lisping blow from his wicked and evil flute
There came forth another vile spirit
torn asunder from darkness's bitter root.
The chamber was now filled and the conductor in the bay,
And the sound of "wicked ages" began to eerily play.
Then one by one came forth the children of whores,
And two by two came the instigators of senseless wars.
Smoke churned forth from the dark instruments in hand,
And a thousand and one octaves ran alarmingly throughout the land.
Birds, which once flew amidst heavens pure blue,
fell helplessly now from the sulfur filled sky.
The rivers of life which once flowed free
turned red and then with consumption they dried.
For the maestro of deception with agility his weapon slithered and spun.
He praised the virtue of darkness and cursed the joy of the sun.
He laughed at the simple children, simple in so many ways.
For he knew now the sounds of their destruction
As he turned to his ensemble in glee
and commanded them the final song to play.
J. Allen Wilson © 2005