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| Drones |
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Peel your skin right off your bones;
No longer live as the old earth drones.
Awaken now to their drugging voices
Who, unaware to you, choose all your choices.
They slice your brain in twos and threes,
Then feed them to the stinging bees
Who carry them off to the hive
To cultivate the continued birth of drones.Labels: poetry |
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posted by Brett @ 11:34 PM
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| The Broken Seal |
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The window sill is chilly.
The leaky wind seeps through the broken seal, passed the window pane.
The fingering draft caresses her face as she sleeps.
The cold deepens through the skin, to the skull, to the brain.
Gathering in the bones, filling the muscles, it creeps.
Gaining passage the cold eats from her heart its warmth; the blood slows.
Who would have known of the subtle breeze?
The Chill, look how far it goes.
The beating stops; the body's stiff.
The soul faded; the spirit-who knows?
The leaky wind seeps.
What of the broken seal?Labels: poetry |
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posted by Brett @ 11:28 PM
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| What of the Peasants? |
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Jesters who throw themselves through windows are not jesters, but fools. But the king thinks they are funny. He is amused by the splintered glass that shatters on the ground and sticks in the skin. But tweezer makers are greatly excited about the increase of sales they are having. Metal smiths and mold makers have heralded the benefits of the king's new form of entertainment. The medical field has mixed emotions, however. Many doctors and nurses are forced into overtime. This is great as far as the pay is concerned because they get double pay. But, their families are not much pleased.
Fathers and mothers have begun to neglect their children. The king has forced them to work harder so that his appetite for bloody jesters is made satisfied. To add more to this, day-care centers are running late into the night. Crying children, runny noses, workers who haven't had their dinner yet and it's 10:30 pm. Hey, but take-outs have been doing great.
Now, you no doubt must be wondering about the jesters. What kind of a person would throw themselves into a glass window? Seriously, this is the question? It must be the guilt they feel when at one time in their lives they were sane and normal. But, they soon discarded this to ease the guilt and embrace the false humility of throwing themselves into a pane of glass. But there is an even more important question. What about the peasant who works in the field, who walks down the dirt road in isolation, carrying a miscellaneous tool, like a shovel, a hoe, or maybe if you like, the possibility of a sharp object, an ax.Labels: fantasy |
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posted by Brett @ 10:45 PM
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| The End Fit |
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World, wake up!
Stop! Listen! Do you not feel it?
Do you not sense a stirring?
It is the coming of the End Fit.
I hear a great host of spirit beings mounting for the Final Anthem, and a great moving of wind, from the Caller, being inhaled for the Last Trumpet Blast. The Great Centenary shall cavort with the enemy of Death without harm and slay their last. But the slaying is the Finale of the Last Trumpet, which has been prophesied by the Ancient Light Voicers. They have known the story of uttered happenings to come and of now, the Still before the storm of the Word Bearer.
The Great Flood of his mouth shall pour forth in torrents the Words of Truth. Every house shall be shaken as the Word Flood bursts through every door, its justice brought to the Dark Realm, Destroying the no-seeing Words. The Word Life shall gush forth into the Earth King's corridor, braking down its pillars of Death-Love, which have rooted deep into the hearts of the race of men. It has pillaged the Promise of the Full Hope to come, through the Blood Gift of Servant God. He made Humility a king over any who would exalt their pride to oppress the earth dwellers, which are the lead creatures of Creation.
The Great God shall bring the crack of doom to the Dark Eye of the Ash, to uncover the many blackened faces of the Hater's War of Rage set against the Elect of the First Born. The Iron Claw of the Lion will slash open the body of the Bloated Serpent, to burst forth its bowels of evil intent built up for the War of Rage.
The Victory of the Invader's Blood shall wash pure the wounds of Creation and will fill men's spirits with its life, but it shall be for only those who have permitted the Great Spirit to indwell their bodies. Pure will be everything so as to gleam with irresistible brightness to force the Darkness to vacate his throne and flee, only to be trapped in a Water of Fire that shall drown his glory to a silent breath.
No longer will the Voice of Tarnished Thought speak forth an execution of hate. Now life shall spring forth in a Renewal of Hope to proclaim the beginning of the Eternal Morning. All those who have chosen the Son will be filled with an eye-splitting light which shall diffuse their bodies of pain, freeing their spirits. They will be given a body devoid of shame, shaped perfect without flaw, every sinew and ligament formed as a precise work of art, carved to the glory of the Son.
Peace, rest, worship, and beauty shall be the essence of the New Life. The radiance of the Creator will be the prime feature of Light and Worship for this eternal existence. For what purpose of life is there, but to bow our lives before the One who gave the Love of Ultimate Sacrifice?
World, wake up!
Stop! Listen! Do you not feel it?
Do you not sense a stirring?
It is the coming of the End Fit.Labels: poetry |
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posted by Brett @ 10:25 PM
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