A Different Kind of Plague
Someday, today will be the stranger whose children's
gifts are sold on black markets more than smartphones,
but this is just like the chance of seeing wolves using
bone-sharpened teeth for the betterment of Monrovia.
This reminds me of a power outage; blown pole pig,
nothing to seduce fire from the prime circuits, & the streets
are dark and benighted. This is the kind of $h1# that
caused me to lose sleep; when a slug crawls in
the middle of town, it burns every eye that sees it,
every small window suffers from the cataract, clouding,
from heaven, because the earth wouldn't do this injustice;
this judgment is otherworldly. I believe the latter rain
will wash away the first, the dust on things that
cover the loss. Think about the outcome, if there's any.
But if the rain continues to dilute the curse of the sea,
imagine what changes will affect the taste of the fish.
The length it takes makes me wonder, we must be
Egypt in the act; the plague did not Passover. Is
there a Proverb for this? I've heard the Psalm of
Lamentation, the squeaking of the slothful ships
that carried the Exodus with the senseless cry for
repatriation because we were taken to a promised
land, but it was never promised to us. Still not now.
Copyright © Francis Brown | Year Posted 2020