The Ponds of Monet
Dear Lord,
I'm ready to sip the trumpet's venom.
I'm ready for the flood, the white fire fingertips.
To rinse the devil's grin into the abyss....
I pray the predators have a slow-motion bleed.
A cut of their chandelier's electricity.
I pray, Lord, you let the children gather wings.
To make their way into eternity.
Dear Lord.
I'm ready for a refurbishing of Eden.
A smoothing of a fractured soul
A refurbishing of our twisted strand.
An immaculate rebirth-a pristine gold.
Dear Lord.
I'm ready-so bring it on.
Lay it on thick and heavenly strong.
Bring the shadow of your blackest song.
Bring on the rapture
Flood their islands, crumble their castles
Cool down their nuclear reactors.
Lay a scythe to proud pyramids and rocket ships.
Treat their cock roach souls
like they've treated our children's dreams and hopes.
I pray you glean the gems from clay.
The lily from the winter pond of Monet.
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