Boa's Ark - Part 2

Continued from Part 1 3. TEATIME INTROSPECTION Amongst the many are the few who maim and kill and think it’s true that purple war’s a parlour game when really they’re submerged in shame for crimes for which they are to blame and can’t expunge with searing flame while plodding through an endless time, or pealing bells with holy chime, or posing in a paradigm where paradox and riddle rhyme. And when they die (as die they must), forevermore their putrid dust, still soaked with gore and carmine lust, will conjure thoughts of cold disgust. And even though torrential rain (which tastes at times like cool champagne) can wash away the scarlet stain which soaks the sands of god’s terrain, it cannot ever cleanse the hands that work the guns and burning brands, or purge the throats that give commands to him who never understands. Nor can the raging hurricane from blackened souls the white regain, rescind the sins or void the banes or loose the damned from Satan’s chains who line the pits of hell’s domains. 4. EVENING REFLECTIONS When through the day to night they pass, their eyes avoid the looking glass displaying dim a pale phantasm plunging deeper down a chasm, surging through a blood ******, smiling thin unveiled sarcasm for the chances lost to taste the many fruits that went to waste when each was still a joyous lad, who went to school and learned to add and danced in rivers, barefoot clad, attended church with mom and dad (which tends the poor and cheers the sad), to pray for good and curse the bad, before, in war insanely mad, he fought the fight (no Galahad) by flinging flames and slashing throats, immersing bods in midnight moats between the broken battered boats where babes and booted bodies float, and leaving bags of bones to bloat in bullet-ridden overcoats, and wondered if the goblins gloat or spot (behind his eyes, the motes), then strode away without a thought that mortal lives had come to naught, sedated by his conscience brought to nothing more than dripping snot, while Others sit upon a yacht and pluck the eyes of fish They’ve caught, for, when they die, fish seem to see The Ones behind the tyranny (with bellies round from gluttony) in future dangling from a tree (with leaves as black as ebony), for that’s, They fear, Their destiny. Continued in Part 3