Writer's note: This is one that I didn't want to write. (Kenneth).
Oh, dreadful, dark and destined death Sweeping, creeping, stalking breath. Whispering hellish-glimmers low, Taking blood, bone, soul and halo’s glow.
Mankind’s mechanical, methodical prance Taking a soft and swifter infant’s glance.
Making, raking and gloating too soon, Death rides numbers high flirting with caskets high.
When once the souls of secret men Take our next steps, our where’s and when.
Vultures fly, liars die, and fire spits at ghoulish skies. Satan’s cloud, bellows loud, laughing still, and dies.
Steps we made, dreams we played, swept like harlot’s ash.
Deceivers they be, pits they see, a blur, a hint, a season past.
Cries in dirt streets abound, shivers, glimmers, target found Shadows crop, Heaven stops, angels lost and found.
What were we? Only we, pure mongrels and mortals be,
Singing in trash, paintings of rash, telling a bloody lie to me.
Chaos, confusion, bloody bottle of Truman’s wine, Flying with sweat, death beget, a smile hidden in rhyme.
No music note, rags, bags, and crumbs of bread they tote, Silent grieving, Enola is leaving her wrath to corrode. Murders we be, reapers we are, sowing breath, reaping death. And dining with families so false.
One flicker in time, nowhere to climb, embrace death angel face-to-face, “We” took their faces, living spaces, swearing to God again. A bloody heartbeat keeping time . . .
Watchful “Doug,” seeing life in smoke line-by-line . . .
Who stands to answer for this barbaric deed? Answers of justification flashing at blur-of-speed. Someone will stand, His books, His brand,
Who’s blood it was, who’s blood it will be, Dripping slowly on our outstretched hands
God weeping, Reaper creeping, time of accounting has come.
Faceless children, backless men and phantom women All walk in lines back to see . . .
What it was, why it was, and how death smelled to them. “They” paid our price, jungles with lice . . . In judgement halls all shining and nice.
We stand alone, bone-to-bone, in bottomless grave you see. Can’t run from this certain crime, It’s stains are yours and mine. Guns align, box of pine, and swords laid in perfect line.
He is calling He is waiting We shake with death’s cold fingers pointing the way. No way back, only a track, to remind “us” of