Seated in the country churchyard from whence I was belched,
I ponder on the bouquets of eternal constellations,
One by one they crane out of the creator’s hand gazing the nadir,
And harangue the darkness, somnolently hanging in diabolical awe.
I envy the moon, pompously tinged by reflected glory,
As mewed skylarks mourn a melody artfully stolen by mockingbirds.
But who am I to judge the truth of such matters?
When the dark shall become profane,
Then shall come the reckoning, impregnated with naked truth!
Bold and bloody the gruesomeness of it all
Hail and thunder heralds the entrance of the archangels_
Wielding an hourglass like the Excalibur reaping souls for heaven,
Watching entranced as the mouth of Hades yawn to welcome the damned.
The trumpet did sound a little too early
or was the chiming of the clock a little too subtle?
Wishes wash away as like witches,
The watch struck the chord a little unexpectedly.
Beware the Ides of March, the screams are heard,
But to no assistance from either side.
Appeals to those that we held near and dear,
put to the rear as the end draws nigh.
The Ides of March is upon us.
Gaze upon Peter, keeper of the gates,
Heavenly sieve that frowns upon coarser,
corrupted souls vested in chaos.
Behold, he readies, Reaper from the sacred sanctum.
Nigh he draws thirsty for truth.
On tombs he knocks, torch in hand,
Evil shall scamper and earth restored.
Double-jointed bolt of jagged emotion
doth spiders the expanses with rhizome’d shudders.
Moral arrears and Decalogue debts shall be collected from many,
Save for the just who shall be absolved!