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The impotence
of the Peacemaker
who can see God, even
even in the demonic labyrinth,
blue-black green...
Perched in Rye So High, golden-grey
on the precipice
ore hanging the Sulphuric Abyss;
The peace maker,
who can hear the screams
of those feeding the flames of
the roaring furnace beneath... impotent;
... The precipice ... reeks.
To be a catcher in that Rye
is to know what lies beyond.
Yet, even knowing;
the gatekeeper, the watchers, the seers
can but lament
the circumstance,
the predicament,
predicated upon a
dream denied.
We build our Prisons
and hate ourselves,
all the while knowing not
the God we curse for His
impotence to change our
course
and
Reason
for being Impotent.
Reason
for being grateful
is but a moment away.
(Oct/05/2003)
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