The stagnant pearl is in the air,
I see the tumult of rage and sorrow
rise onto winds from shell shocked backs;
half a planet awake tonight,
sober as mists devour hell plagues,
grim fortune lurks beneath heavy coils.
This is night.
The scabbard of Life!
Death has no rule over temperance.
Forward into solace
diseased claw with infernal nails,
songs of black
cast into a fierce cowl.
White soul boiling in its broth,
mountains jostle for new horizons
as eagles bring new scenes.
We tossing twisting,
ever shifting flecks of pulse
soar under moon and star
like tiny ogres roasting swans.
Lethal barbs scar not
whilst poison suffocates in smoke,
the landscapes love and mourn us.
Dashing swords skewer fat wrecks,
relentless headbut of the horns.
It skids politely in the sky
that subtle muse,
crown of ice;
save us from carcass
skull tapped endings.
Temple of the timeless
honest mask of the devil'd night,
guide our shallow pinpricks
as we turn in our deaths.
A stable hope
reminding the godless they are not alone,
omnipresent mega Amen,
root of proof that the poor prosper...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
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