The cavernous hall is gaily decorated,
Walls adorned with broken promises,
Shattered hearts drip
From a ceiling bright with sin.
The long table, built from guilt
Has many seats
Where the damned
May take their places.
At the head, recently dead
Sits innocence,
Black now, not white
Bereft of all pretence.
Just below,
The Monarchs, The Potentates,
The losers of empires,
Now, just simple ingrates.
Fat and sweaty Bishops,
Leer at serving boys,
Their toys of the past,
Fast now, beyond their groping hands.
Judges and Politicians
Play musical chairs,
A game of blame,
At which they were the masters.
Oligarchs, Captains of Industry,
Now with broken fingers,
Use pox ridden bitches
To count their riches.
And among this mighty host
The most lowly
Of the damned,
Sit I.
Unable
Even to cry
As I watch the dead
Wait eagerly, to be fed.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
