Golden Pity

 

Festering bodies take flight in all directions.

Combative desires rage from ribs to cage, and they are set free.

Tongues fly in queue, bodies fall in unison.

Art of beauty discords, records, and exhales as eyes roll open.

Men flee for the hills, as women stand firm only to be slain.

Hall hail the battle.

Shots fired on the shoulders of those who truly believe.

Pressed down on their foreheads with the tips of lofty fingers.

Drowning in swamps of their hometown no one mourns for long.

Never trained, always ready, cause of death always lack of bread.

Exegetical nonsense that stirs until the royal they are comfortable.

The walls crumble, and the fields ripe with canon fire they seek to kill them all.

Hills lined with kings and cowards.

The life we own foreclosed on while we were making plans.

The King on his white horse never far.

His call eternal.

His voice ethereal.

The woke impressed not as they fight in vein.

Choked to death by the death they soak their bones with.

Alone not, but distant in heart they crumble hands raised. 

Simmering shots fire.

Arrows a blaze nameless but precise.

Treating those with pure intentions like hostages in their own skin.

Karma silent in practice.

Eastward Prayers precise but mute as they are ripped from spine to toe in cross fire.

Reality rips itself through the fabric of suffering as it exhales through them like birthday candles. 

Golden trumpets call those endured through his name.

Victory it proclaims as rabid darkness dissipates.

Hopeless they melt, mute they pour out of creation like the infection crawls from the salve.

Creator collects, and calls his own.