Some have seen the signs of seals broken.
Some, say three and six will follow the crowned rider,
bleach wood bow drawn astride a horse of white.
Our world of peace and war quietly laid waste
by will and faith blunted as priests end Sermons
in garish garb—in penance of fire after Sunday mass—
grown drunk on communion and sins confessed.
Some will hail Mary and say, "Guilty of doubt I seek your grace"
sprawled in prayer, prone before sinew drawn full.
Ice the bolt of conquest three and six.
From twice shattered seals what has the mind perceived?
I've seen the fiery nostrils flare, tasted brimstone,
I have felt the flame of hoof and breath upon my back.
I've known the fire of desire and seen it fueled with rage
as I've seen the signs of a second seal released.
I know the voices spoken, I hold no virtue in the lies they sing
with forked tongues casting venomous spittle.
Those who drink the ichor of hate, who raise the crimson blade,
who favour the fall of man and praise the funeral fire
still fill the pyre as the Red Horse tramples mankind.
But if blood on blood should equal war
if sword to sword we shed the soul it matters not at all!
Had man forsaken faith for violence, to desolation round again,
for faith to perish now upon the whims of priests—
it matters not at all as twice the seals were broken.
I know the rider black as night and think softly of the scales,
precariously balanced, I have heard the seal and crack.
I know the feasts of famine and enough of hunger
to feel fear of what’s to come.
Hate.
To hunger ravished—say a quart of wheat for all your wages
for those that slave the day till fingers bleed
for want of relief from rumblings unquenched.
Destruction has come round again—ice
the heart of midnight unleashed
For Death is also plague and next to come to call,
a pallid rider with flaking flesh to feed the masses,
pounds of flesh to feed us all from skeletal hands
whose great feats of pestilence proclaim the doom of man.
Some have seen the signs of seals broken—
seen a world of war and peace quietly laid waste—
Destruction has come round again.
And as hosts of martyrs rise, would distant skies alight with fire
suffice to silence what we know of hells and heavens?
Copyright © 2020 by Keith E. Sparks Jr.
Crafted using every word of "Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost in sequence.
First Appeared in Impspired Magazine Issue 8
Impspired.com
Comments