A longtime dream dies
and realization falters
as a leader seeks agreement
and each time finds none
he swims in figures
and calculations, it’s always
the same number that
keeps coming up,
the number of the beast.
In the woods out there
way out there
in the place where you won’t go
that’s where you’ll find them
dancing in a heated frenzy
sweating a sweet scent
the leader stripping down
as steam rises up off her body;
she raises her hands to the red moon
and calls out his name
beckoning again and again
until finally he comes
and stands before them
tall and mighty
his face that of the beast
his eyes sharp and narrow, red
the horns of a ram
curving backwards from his head;
he steps out of the myst
to fulfill their rapture
but it will be their last.
On top of the peak
they stare down
at an apocalyptic vision
of a towering city shrouded
in a menacing grey smog
down there
haze blurs their eyes
and veils the ships
dotting the harbor
an inescapable toxic cocktail.
You summon this beast
at your own risk
if you think he cares for you
he does not
he is a power unto himself
something beyond death
worse than death
and he will show you that,
the horns on his head
are pincers, sharp and biting
the third horn between them
a malformed unicorn’s horn
as sharp as the candle’s flame
and ten times hotter
his face is centered
around his crocodile nose
his body nearly hidden
by a cape that flows around him
black bat wings that enshroud him,
his chest is translucent
showing you bones and guts
that rot within
but there is no heart
none at all
only a vague blue glow
that casts a spell
on those who dare look.
Negotiators
look for fresh ideas,
when none comes
they burn paper
billions and billions of dollars.
Yes you should be scared,
but what else can I tell you,
there are angels coming
but you must be patient
the dust has not settled yet
and who is the good
and who is the bad
has yet to be seen.
[Inspired by the works of Kris Verwimp with some words borrowed from this article.]
