Nowhere to run -© Only a Messenger
that which must be has begun,
tares from wheat,
bitter from sweet,
chaff from grain,
sound of mind from all insane,
dross from gold,
It shall unfold -
wickedness from all that’s good,
stripped away like bark from wood,
dark from light, left from right , manifest,
north from south and east from west,
what is cursed from what is blessed.
Murky gray begone from day!
You shall see - so it must be.
Lukewarm from hot, lukewarm from cold;
that long hidden must unfold,
coward false from true and bold
So it has been long foretold.
Don’t you know? Nowhere to go.
No longer fair of face or form,© Only a Messenger
a solitary, lonely guardian peers
into the gathering darkness;
while from the lonely, stony heights,
and braving the approaching storm,
the passionate warrior stands
and braves the biting winds and cold,
and feeling every fear, deciding to be bold.
With vicious, biting winds the onslaught comes
and stinging, icy, deadly rains;
yet stands he pierced, still firmly planted,
while renouncing countless wounds and pains.
A dark host follows on its heels,
a hoard of shadow, lightning, clouds, and thunders,
foreboding fierceness foul reveals all manner
of deceit and lying wonders.
Unyielding to appearances,
he from his post will not be put asunder,
for in the heights of glory knows he
where his spirit dwells -
in spite of anguish, sorrow,
or the devastations of a thousand hells.
Reminiscing, through the moaning winds© Messenger at the Crossroad
within my restless mind,
on crumbled stone and toppled throne
of those who thought themselves divine,
whose bones lie drying in the desert sands,
who made demands
of human sacrifice of body, blood, and sweat,
Somehow such spirits rise up once again,
with calculated cunning terrorizing souls of men,
within top secret boardroom offering
deals, appeals, favors, bribes, or threat,
See how they charm with view to trap or harm,
to satisfy rapacious eye, control, possess, alarm!
The ancient story like a dirge is sung,
memorialized in crumbled stone across the earth -
As if the bloodshed has some honor or intrinsic worth.
The one who sees himself divine
mouths - as if by hand of unseen puppeteers -
“We thank you for your sacrifice,”
then has his lackeys pour for him
another glass of wine.
The bride cries out in darkness
who shall no more embrace her sailor groom;
A tiny child pines, crying for his soldier mother
in some far off land, gun in the hand -
by which she used to rock the cradle,
used to rule the world,
as midnight specters swirl in nightmares
‘round his lonely room...
Whose causes claim this right
to human suffering, harm, and blood?
What ancient contract sealed and prisoned us
within this paltry state?
What sleight of hand has caused our minds to see
this endless war and sacrifice as good?
Whence comes the holy hand
that shall redeem us from this fate?