In this; the blistering wave,
What is remembered but the last, the
Most recent detonation of everlasting war
Darkening even the most well lit sphere?
That which calls down its subjects
To deliver sermons on the back of the sun
For a people that believe in faith
More than themselves in the hearth of holiness
That goes unchained?
Anything less (or more)…
A fire burns.
Everything is contaminated, dirty. Terror is the cable
Which straps the bomb, fear; its cart.
The derelict move about,
Carrying on, as one-eyed kings and their henchmen,
Whose hands are honed into razors and
Whose hearts strike as drums echoing low the streets,
Chop the wooden throats of the guilty trees.
In this sphere
Hope shrinks of its throbbing bravery.
“This is no way to live!”
Explodes the seers.
“This is pure folly bathing in impure madness!”
But not to any invisible deity or dream merchant,
Like children holding hands praying to escape
The cynical hands of their fathers,
The gods of youth safely hold them.
The seers implore mankind,
Pleading that hope still flows with
Bright and igniting flesh
Retaining the power to bow humanity.
Of this authority we lend our flesh
For there is nothing else to save.
The only course to lift us out,
Up from soiled failure,
Above the turgid shackles
Binding our feet to war.
O! Let this be our mission!
Let it be our heartrending sermon
Running like rivers over our lips
Into the heart of every city,
Into the brightest lamppost-
"War must be shackled
And marched into the fire."
© 2008 mrp/tpm