Apocalyptic Dreams

 

Apocalyptic Dreams

(A lone voice sits remembering August the sixth and whispers)

I will see the old system break. 

I will see those condemned by fate. 

Walk and cross Diablos Gate as the sky turns gray. 

When ash-filled clouds roll my way. 

In the heavens, high above, as the last horn blows.

As something heavy rises from its throne.

I shall watch like Nero once watched Rome. As angels pass by, guiding the good home.

Before the bringers of chaos, plant seeds in the minds of those:

Who secretly pleads to be sown. And when the red rivers and black seas pull back. 

As the storm clouds prepare to attack.

I shall shout in that falling rain. 

"Where are you, Saint Michael, the angel of peace?”

As I bow my head low in defeat. 

Hoping to hear a choir sing and golden bells ring. 

But if nothing appears and I hear a sound like a soft whisper from Death, I will go lay with the many other slaves. 

Played like fools, using secretive tools to subdue.

Across all airwaves from secret enclaves.

And smile as the first rocket lands in the sand near our houses. Soon to be our graves.

Knowing no one shall win.

Especially those marked by sin.

Who meet in secret in their conclaves

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.