Bombers Moon
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 too from the patriots sting
sanctified by another gods hand.
The History books dilemma
of right and wrong.
My run begins,
my mind listens to a confess of whispers.
The engines become my Priest,
as 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 records in slow mo for posterity,
and the future will bathe on these memories
to a nations delight.
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 Heaven’s Gate,
(A cold Hallelujah) for God to judge.
For the folks back home it is
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.
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2013
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