A wisp of ancient tale,
Racks the unconscious mind,
Staging fear with rapid heart,
And a sweat:
Cold on pale
With shallow breath.
Where lives the sadist,
Which springs chaos on the sphere
That mortal man calls home?
Surely hell is near,
Or so says my sallow heart,
Weakened by tragedy
Far and near.
Are there no heroes,
Or just hidden from sight
Are they,
So pervasive is the evil man,
Dressed to kill on Friday night,
Father to a nameless child.
I cannot breathe,
To the windows
As I go:
A noise,
Shots in the night,
The screams of lonely child.
Shall I fear?
Or hope?
Are these the days foretold
By ancient man?
Is there a hero in the night,
Man to quell the hate?
I think not,
As forsaken are we;
Desperate vagrants
Below a transient sky.
Comfort me,
In coffin’s satin robes,
Safe beneath the earth,
At rest.
For builds the universal storm,
Foretold on brittle page,
And there are no valorous hearts,
To quell the Master’s rage.
Look inside your soul,
Where veracity should last reside,
And you will see the lies,
As you succumb,
To the lonely morning tide.
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I think that more so even than the Master's rage, we are bringing this destruction upon ourselves and the Lord is allowing us to bear the consequences of our actions...
Cryssa
" Comfort me,
in coffin's satin robes,
Safe beneath the earth,
At rest.
I would only dare to ask, for I first misread it as " At best."
Yes you wrapped up the world at Easter this year, nothings changed, just more nails in his feet and hands! Beautiful truth! Jasmin Horst
a creature of light.
I like the fragmented imagery in this poem. -- I can really get my mind around it, as that's how my mind thinks.
Take care, and God Bless. --Charlie