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Dan Fire Poem
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.
Copyright © Dan Fire | Year Posted 2007
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