The passing...

The passing…

As his head was writing of battles,
his heart ached for peace. He
longed for the comforts of his
mother’s Serge.

The Divas had eyes of reddest red,
they danced on the bodies of those
who were to be dead.
Stiletto heels scarred the skin so
horribly tight, their dance would
last well through this coldest night.

Petrified people’s petrification was
indeed sunk deep, correctable
expostulation was the norm.
From judges and lawyer there
was not a peep, they’d not
pontificate they’re way out of
this storm.

So many valid subjections laid
to burn with the rest, who would
escape the mighty phalanx of truth.
Marauding through the estates
of wealth and self interest, the
accusers were now in the director’s
directorial booth.

How many more days can this
cleansing slaughter exist,
no one had the answers or cared
for it’s extinction.
We at last had a power no mere
mortal could resist, and not to
many voices were descanting of
our rendition.