The House of Many Faces
I am the man that feeds the world
genetically engineered crops,
come take your fill.
I am the investor who gives you land
your debt can wait, for we know who you are.
Multiply and grow fat for I need an army
teach your children about us and them
and be grateful that you belong to us.
For we are civilised so pay the tax
that freedom brings you.
Tomorrow uncertainty waits
time is the rain that washes the future.
Famine will always be your brother
so hold my hand and walk with me.
Should the bee turn its back on you?
then nature will focus the brain.
To kill for survival is a gift from God,
to live is the right of every man.
Follow me and the acrid smell of new asphalt
shall delete the footsteps of your past.
I am you and you are me
science will cheat all that is written.
End of days will launch the virus
and Preachers will look through saintly windows
at the gathering headstones.
And a child of the world will see
fields full of white chairs
and wonder “where are the people”
The terrorist will kill the innocent
Martyrdom their reward
and we will watch the TV in silence,
As our loved ones fall from the sky.
And somewhere in the world
the decision will be made.
A victim will be selected
and a drone will do its duty.
Their coffin will be draped
in right and wrong,
honour to the left
and traitor to the right.
A holy cross will divide this river
for all will cling to the illusion
of them and us.
God will control the believers
political solutions the rest.
No race or religion can alter the time
the sums will solve survival.
Some must die to let me live
and I have chosen you,
the holy grail of the west
to take supper with me.
For in all this destruction
In all the beauty that has been lost.
There stands a human being
the perfect spy from above.
For in human form the devil exists
It is only when we die
Can the angel be born?
And the writings of poets
will be heard no more,
the ink will only follow orders.
Blue and the green will fear the brown
and black will not trust the white.
The language of man will fuel the fire
and the grey of ash shall win.
But in truth who will miss this existence
for the angel is a brother of the devil
and God is the father of all.
Our epitaph will be found
Painted on the cave walls of the frightened.
Dreamtime will come again
and the last child will draw the final image.
Of the white chairs waiting in a sea of green
and she will pick the last flower
that only she can see.
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2013
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