STORM

Hail the storm! Pace the swelling river,

spurring your black steeds along

its bludgeoned banks!

Our blood bedizens the altar

of your golden calf –

such shall be your spoils.

You wince as I feast on a skeleton leaf

on parched land amid dead sheep;

take heart, name your triumphs,

count the ribs of my cathedral,

bone upon curving bone,

this sanctum to the numbness you cultify.

The bird embalmed renders

the seer silent, as you jubilate

in orchards whose fullness is discord.

You kill today,

stuttering your resolve to resurrect

tomorrow through a snarling

chorus of whispers from a ghost land

screaming blunted discontent -

consequence of your selective muteness.

You search the evening laid out before you

like a threadbare rug,

while I prospect for blossoming beyond

shadows along my ring of Solomon

darkening into the past tense.

A barren branch beats a dead drum.

The only honour done you shall be when

you no longer breathe.

© 2020 Lilium Candidum

Lily’s Verse

Image: A STORM

Artist: René Magritte 

Source: wikiart.org