The Temple’s Sawman: A Poem of Mourning

I will cast up mine eyes

To the gathering shadows

To the storming of starlight

Through underground waters

My heart shall beat freely

Like brine upon torments

As the devils of light

Grin and smirk mid the roaring

As the devils of light

Grin and smirk mid the roaring

There’s a million false lawyers

And ten million scribes

A billion false prophets

Battering Hosea’s wives

A billion false prophets

Battering Hosea’s wives

But my heart is of snow

And it rages at midnight

As the eagle-eyed pedants

Plot to smash my resistance

I see a young infant whose skin is devoured

She screams, as her mother is burned in the courtyard

I hear an old man whose grey hairs are battered

As Zechariah’s blood freezes

A fresh sacrament splattered

As Zechariah’s blood freezes

A fresh sacrament splattered

A Pope of strange Gods laughs and guzzles with laughter

As the cold rain of steel rains down

And down ever after

As the cold rain of steel rains down

And down ever after

There’s a million dead babies

And ten million rapists

A mafia’s horde

A gilded Stormtrooper made it

A mother whose daughter is plucked from her arms

As she’s buried in sand to save her children from harm

A brother who weeps and would shield her from stones

While the vultures of virtues dream dark nightmares of her bones

There was a young mother who cared for her babby

But then the eagles flew in on a message of mercy

The dung of the eagle sprouted armies of devils

And the head of that mother was clean severed by evil

A Caliph of Dawn stares in solemnity’s horror

While the Caliph of Sunset spills his wares in a brothel

A Caliph of Dawn stares in solemnity’s horror

While the Caliph of Sunset spills his wares in a brothel

I will not shut my eyes

To the plunder of bodies

To the raging and flooding of innocent children

The hellfire and brimstone cast on grief-stricken mothers

And the barbaric virtue of looters and scoffers

I raise up my fist and my voice stabs the Heavens

The gusts of my silence set Hell’s Throne all-a-tremble

And still that young mother, prey of Sunset and Dawn

Screams and begs mercy from the children of Moloch

My voice has no power to turn reptiles to virtue

My heartbeats are powerless in the graveyard of mercy

In the Empire of Lies, where all truth becomes treason

I lower my head, and await some far-off season

Where the corruption of maggots has some measure of ending

And the fury of clowns has some hope of relenting

And the tears of the guiltless do not stream like rain

As the beasts of the field take their fists up again

If the stir of my breath finds no echo from Heaven

Then I’ll hang myself gladly

By seven score, and times seven

I halt and I pray,

And I brood on these shadows.

The dawn shall arrive…

Wheat or blood on the meadows?___________________________________________________________________

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