Here the man cometh, in burning sea

scoring darkening dreams upon the flesh,

scorning those abased to him,

their needs forsaken, lost in swilled detritus;

coital deeds unbearing of flower and tree.

That man - sleek, swift, god of life

giver, taker, plunderer

all belligerence and sham;

vigilante, branded darkling raiment

strong provider’s his hue and his strife.

Dazzled she who’s won with wit and guile

her boys, agog in his presence

swelling hearts and smiles all too real

one lad, there, in between

is malleable and mild.

Man’s song of unbeing sung into that boy

cloying charms of violence

layered verses, atonal with chorus repeats,

each lyric the last of its kind in this world,

each word a lament to faceless human joy.

Bulletined news freeze summer glories

gory in its actual, factual deliverance day

six barrels of eight were there in ‘99

packed in tight, in lime,

souls silenced by that man, those men,

those foul enough to unlearn good, to dim their bright stories.

And the eight tales are disposed of

but the buryers are at their penitent place

grounded in their space of tortured reflection,

such as they once held in their hands

cast down there, next to the Ancient Adversary

while the quiet souls find peace above.

Copyright: James Williamson; published poem.