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?