His anger is like hordes of flying insects after a first rain, as they
bombard nightly: streetlights, nightlights, car lights and all that is lit,
under a gibbous moon, on the face of the earth!
His ensuing anger seeps through every pour in his
being into the core of his stone-plated cast-iron-heart!
That has sealed the thing he once was, to the thing
he has turned into.
What he fears now are the wheels of misfortune are
about to turn once more to the very haunts of his previous life in heaven—
When he was cast out, thus to be cast off the
surface of earth for a thousand years to some hollow, where his piston lips
will be sealed, and he himself chained to the grotto’s wall…
He knows time is short!
He will read this poem and know the poet’s eye is
more primed not on fancy but fact!
And for that, he’ll not want you to read this.
#5047/2-1-2016
