Apocalypic Visions
And there will be no candled moon,
No bones picked clean by virtue's rage
Against all sins left un-forgiven.
Lovers left in limbo-light at dawn
Shall stand as statues stand,
Alone, as broken martyrs
Cast in marbled majesty.
When death destroys our sacredness
All sorrows of the soul are spread
Like seeds across a barren field.
A whale-eyed sailor sings
The hymns of his contrition,
To banished angels caged beneath
A deep and wind-swept sea.
They rise again to wail
Against the shackled straps
Around their proud and pompous souls.
Their dripping teeth are bared
And black with rot of time.
The Vultures hover over
Decimated cityscapes.
Cold moon of winter rising;
Hoar-frost clinging fast
To withered vines.
Fields once fertile now are fallow,
Planters scatter seed for naught,
Their holy harvest stolen
By embittered little gods
Who grope with hope that nature will succumb
And soon become but scuttled rubble - charred!
A world grown old - no longer born anew,
Is stripped and ripped with overkill
Of things once cherished and are cherished still.
Copyright © Tom Mcmurray | Year Posted 2017
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