Preludes Of Vanities

Searing black winds of change sting hot the night air.
Preludes of vanities ersatz confessions foreseen shared.
Priest too weary; bent now by hapless twisted rage.
Scoffers still now unbelievers of the reclusive sage.  
 
On his winter landscapes wrought forth of silent delusion.
The old wise man now destitute cries alone in his woods of seclusion.
Rivers stooped and shallow erode thus quick the unfaithful mind.
Yesterday is promised to its tomorrow in a world slain blind.
 
Old man alone now watches the masses collect beneath the burnt umber sky.
Hooded masses seeking a lord’s salvation cavort eager to surrender, eager to die.
Soft white are the chants of Ptolmey, which rise from lips, sewn, shut!*.
Colossus arises an old man weeps inside; preludes of vanities litter the winter landscapes of pride.



J. Allen Wilson © 8/2007