Bombers Moon

Them and us under a Bombers Moon By Steven Cooke Making love to my demons Under the flag of my country Caught in between the never believer And a pardon of angels, Who bargain their souls for my redemption, Empowered by a nation, Glorified by heroes departed My life sanctified by religious compromise For tonight I fly, under the bombers moon Nearer to God than most I see the world differently, This Earth orbits in a sea of cold My plane hidden in its recess, A place where silent screams dwell And rainbows are sent to die. Away from the gaze of my enemy, A phrase worthy of the Devil Away from the patriots sting, These too, sanctified by a religious hand. The History books dilemma My run begins My mind listens to a confess of whispers, The engines my Priest, The bomb doors open, Horsemen of The apocalypse, Released from their tethers I am the Arbiter of Death As in Nature, Chance will decide The faceless will fall And god willing I will return home. In the scheme of things A Cities worth is one minute, 23 seconds The camera to record in slow mo for Posterity, And to delight the victorious. The Impact sweeps away the sweat of past generations Creates queues of ghosts, waiting, To lay in row after row, of white marble. Their silent screams absorbed into Heavens Gate, A cold Hallelujah for God to judge. Just another day on planet earth But don’t worry, Time, like, the brook of sighs, will wash away these sins But not the seeds, For we are the gardeners of sin, Their germination, lovingly corrupted In our differences, them and us The Pillars of capitalism our advantage. The fear of the Devil theirs Our final epitaph in the circle of life, We are conditioned to repeat the mistakes of the past, As is the Wilder beast to cross the River of Death, Or theologians using religion as a weapon of war The devil and the Crocodile dines well, on such a menu We truly are, a blessed Race.