‘Apocalypse 4’
The Poem
Copyright: Wendy Harford, April 2006.
Famine
Comes a cropper, burning wide, once fertile fields, defiled, now fallow.
Gaunt and ghastly famine ride’s, inertia set on sculpted bones too long in motion.
Mythical legacy now unveils heaven is earth too long forsaken, now hell.
Can you still lift your head, in brilliance shine a thousandth time
And bring again a chalice full, to drink of poison meant for all!
Let lay the day and stay thy hand, lest wearied pilgrims enter in.
Pestilence
A state of nature welcomes in, unredeemed by fallen grace,
Dis-ease of righteous and of sin, naughty nature – pestilence.
Farcical is willing nature, while rich do tarry and poor still wallow
Yet stripped to the bone of a judgment day, neither championed, challenged or belayed.
Shining strength and towering wisdom meet grotesque in pestilence’s keeping.
Searching only tortured being, ceasing, ever embraced in this, thy everlasting greeting.
War
War decides the latest crimes, marching blind in armored charade,
Humanities boundaries ever changing for greed and power be refined.
And footprints broad do widely trod apocryphal credo leading on –
Where nemesis’ once were known as friend and friends besought a tearful end.
Prophetic war, oh wanton war, parade of hand in hand procession
Leading on the fatted lamb with covenant of promised land
Not owned by any, least of all man!
Death
Winged Death presides o’er all, metamorph ephemeral.
From dust to dust and ash to ash, no decree is come to pass from innocence to naked wrath!
Speaks no psychic to reveal worlds apart of man and man, once nature’s call is in command.
What speaks is fear – suspicion charged of credence sought with no regard.
Or prescience beatific surrounds acquiescence inherent bound
As life is death and death is found.
Apocalypse
Apocalypse, a veiled ‘thing’,
A legacy written language of humanities religious affliction.
A ‘thing’ to come, a ‘thing’ to be-fall
Proclamation of reality beckons us all!
Famine a ‘thing’ we can command.
As is war, a device made by man on demand.
Though pestilence sleeping on mothers wing,
And death, life’s doorway, should make our hearts sing.
Parasitical buffoon’s, are we, in vain
Devouring our requisite mother through others pain!