~ you make of me an angry thing ~
I would believe in you
If you were
To ask me to,
Yourself.
You send
Too many
Grotesque emissaries.
Today you are
Death descending,
Hooded in lascivious
Blood hunger,
A murder of crows
Languid on mad opium.
Dark days, dark days.
Black onyx midnights.
Ask me
Ask me
Yourself.
How can a priest
A mullah
Rabbi
Witch doctor
All your accidental
Emissaries do justice
To omnipotent work?
If at all
It is by your edicts…
Fraught with geomancy
That path to You
Chilled to kill soft soles,
I cannot walk.
Not now
Not yet.
