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Poem

Surreal and supernatural, same synergise,
Rational folks call it a bunch of lies,
The march of an ant army, along the jamb,
To converge into the alter, of a sacrificial lamb;

No wonder why the genre, brood,
Wish if there was, ‘Robinhood’,
To save the souls, from the tolling bell,
And the marauders, fire, from hell,

As they close up, for the kill,
For a crystal of sugar, up on the hill,
They nibble on the remains, that appear sweet,
Like a pride of Lions, feasting on meat,

Slave labours carry, grains of sand,
Under the watchful eyes, of supervising ants,
Tread up to build, a tomb atop the hill,
Like a pyramid hiding treasures, of pharaohs will,

The slaves trail a vision of light, cross a gorge to reach,
The water of the Red Sea, divides in a breach,
As soldiers, follow the slaves, with intent to kill,
Nature’s sweet revenge, as water, fills,
The soldiers washed away, into a watery grave,
While new life starts, on the Promised Land for the brave;

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