Vengance

Black is but the ebony The road is but the souls Souls are the corrupt ground Which bellows in shallows And is mellow in the blackness of broken arrows The blood, which trickles down is the soup And the faces, which lift, are but the black clouds Find as they may Or run as they prey The few have sacrificed the iniquitous And the just have brought the new iniquitous Tis this a great place Nor not says the grey man who stills with pipe The elder of the calm moon night Who stands and chuckles like a mountain waterfalls might Bring it to the whole he spackles And bring it to the place of caged bats he ripples They only but listen to his ruling commands And ferocious yawns Then with some ill-mannered rejoinder he picks at the tip of his faceless finger And those who stood in awe, now plea in pardon The wrinkled hand of chipping bits whips and bids Heads bobble and sooth in melting white Then those who have perished are put abroad a boat Aboard a ship which sits, anchored on a fishing locus The flashes of persistence, and the roars of talking metal rain through the sky like lighting And the flares of white, and the orange suites and illuminated crafting wands wave them away While the man in sleek pitch black hits a cat with a shallow blunt stick The last of his many sticks And with it the sacrifice is placed, and his name will never drift For his goal of death Has allowed him failure on recalling what has happened erstwhile. The time when he was bleak And his life was but a crescent, which was not bright But bled in plight Plight for his kin When the arrows of the autumn night had ended their life And vengeance was but a mere tear sight.