A Historical Poem
I
In howling woods and hollowed rooms
in bolted vaults and entrenched tombs;
Where tortured Gentiles in dust decay
and the pyromaniac souls of Inquisitors screech in flames today.
II
Where Hades’ scarlett chariot of skulls shriek
and spectral choirs on Zephyr’s icy blow sing;
Where bloodied spears and cannons clash
and memories of World War run abash.
III
Where the hounds of hell take flight
vampires-lusting-for-witches racing across the night the raped and ravaged give a bellowing howl
but they remain unheard as the unjust growl.
IV
Where glistening silver spiders weave
and werewolves lurking for prey take their leave. Where banshee curses torment the spirits below and mortal footsteps dare not go.
V
Where Death caresses life in grim embrace its frigid hands inches from the immigrant’s face. Where e’er the starving march of asylum is flaunted children in cages cry, “who amongst us has departed?”
VI
Where by the red-litten windows I see
Oft I wonder if Lucifer would depart his dungeon and come visiting this wicked world again embodied in the political machination of men
VII
Where a discordant melody
Which the river Styx in Iraq & Syria accompany the death rattle of the headless are heard forever the jihadists laugh – but smile no more.
VIII
Where by that churchyard tomb
unrepentant devils breed & brood
where young flesh like ours is swept
By wolves-in-priests clothing have often knelt
- I
Where the rope of the lynched innocent is felt –the final woe of Black man, woman and child demonized, beaten & burned
by those guiltless, pale, & sinister–
in the throats of their melanin-endowed descendants
X
Where the hellish stench can be smelled
Of a Factory, a Slaughterhouse, a Crematorium
where names were turned to numbers
And Jewish faces turned to ash
XI
Where all houses are haunted by memories of those that died and a merciless poison lurks in the air
murdering millions across nations as it glides
imprisoning men and women in isolation without a care
XII
Where I am seem brooding on the countless masses’ pain
I read of narcissists leaders self-absorbed in their quest for fame Across the world, throughout history and especially in the land I call home today Indeed, there is a more ghastly day than Halloween
Tis’ called: “Election Day”
–———-
XIII
I wake dreaming the shadows have fallen
But remember tis not fantasy but history
Now I wonder if anything is scarier than
the thought:
life has no meaning
death is but certain
and only the wicked
find peace?