In the early years of the new millennium
you warn me
of the tiger creep
the absence of light,
moving swiftly as an ill wind
whistling down the waters of the Ouisconsin,
its prairies and woodlands
sprouting foul tendrils
like those of a murderer’s hands,
thousands gnashing their teeth,
whose living death
yet carries the sleep of the just and true.
The King and his Lords
tell all to learn his ways,
a brooding selfishness,
and call that justice.
A rendezvous with destiny so malicious
with deliberate intent,
that if the thing be done
it best be done in complete darkness,
shorn of all warning,
not subject to speech
absent of moral compass
to navigate away from deadly shoals.
To the hundred thousands
beating at the doors of the King’s house
that formerly held the counsels of all,
only one speaks
so that all must move.
Gloomily turning away
rebellious yet righteous subjects,
the humble goodness of the lowly.
There is a prodigious weight,
that dark place
in the back passages of betrayal,
that thing the Creator knows yet despises,
smashed to dust,
souls eaten out from the inside,
the wages of sin artfully concealed.
Weeping and wailing cannot endure whilst
the light seeps in
and pries open that box filled
with goodness and mercy
as joy in the morning,
amid clarion horns of jubilee.
The Dark Lords rule no more
for they hold no power over
those that crave and see the great light.