Miracles Aren't Real

Sickly and Desired Fate

Let the darkness of night swallow the day,

chasing away the rays of hope and light away

to retreat into a dark chasm of the depths,

an unimaginable place,

Full of snake-like shadows

that wrap around you, embracing your soul in hurt and heartache

encouraging the innocent to grow, constrict, and snap into something grim

a quiet mystery,

with eyes of black holes, sharp teeth, and elongated razor fingers,

snatching up other light and swallowing it whole

in the effort to fill the black pit of it's center,

craving their lost purity and divinity

to take the place of the unquenchable demon

That ravages whole populations

with fear in it's presence or shadow

As hungry pools glance across the pure,the good.

Damned in the end of it all, it's efforts feeble and unrewarded

dead as there lays nothing else to ravage and mutilate, or twist

no more fresh blood to bleed,

As red poppies burst forth from the bitter graves of the dead and the damned, breathing life again into the cold,

heartless and putrid soil that grey and torn flesh lay,

dressed in uniform even as the battlefield grows still and silent

never going home, are the soldiers,

that faught to find the light outside of internal death,

and died trying to grasp the light of others, never leaving this horrid scene

with a bitter-sweet ending, each poppy for the blood of each soul lost to dark, the blood spilled

in the name of the tricky light