Wandering Judea

I watch the news incessantly, in effect present by proxy and phone. I anguish and languish, waiting for the spheres of fire to roll fast and burn out a safe distance from my paramour, my Lion of Judea. I anticipate each day with worry and tears and with cynical hope that the innocents will rebel against the pain and the waste. In the meantime, I hear the missiles whistle as they meet the earth with venomous rage, from the stinging poison painted on their summits. Wandering aimlessly through the wrecked streets engulfed with despair, some hide below the earth in gulags afraid to check if the sun is alight. Others wager a walk to the necropolis to honor the mortal warriors who gave everything they had. Mothers bellow beside countless catacombs, children’s names prematurely etched in stone. And the night sky continues to blaze, lit with embers of scorching hate from that poison arrow that keeps aloft, never losing flight, powered by ages of rage. Still, we wait at the turnstile of repose, despite the respite that neither ebbs nor flows. But they forge on toward their final goal, With bloodstained hands from a scapegoat’s soul. The eternal retreat that’s all the “rage”, Your den of iniquity, your battling cage Seventy-two maidens, virgin-pure, Forbidden fruit, forevermore.