adamdaniel

Death and His Entourage

A trail of destitution,
Flies behind the face of sin,
Tis wily death,
With wanton breath,
To slay the world within.

The curse proceeds undaunted,
Through the catacombs of time,
Perdition’s weight,
Will not abate,
A sad and sorry rhyme.

The land is stricken lightless,
And the atmosphere is wan,
The withered grass,
Bereft and sparse,
Below the smoking sun.

The hidden enervation,
Manifesting as decay,
These blackened days,
A lonely craze,
With Jesus flown away.

The farms are lying barren,
And the windmills creak for age,
The heart morose,
A bitter dose,
A sick and sorry wage.

The wicked last forever,
With the riteous stricken mute,
The tides of wrath,
The aftermath,
In ages destitute.

I gaze upon the fences,
Like a corpse with hollow eyes,
The rusted wire,
Presenting dire,
A long forsaken guise.

The clouds are hanging leaden,
And the trailing spectres wild,
The wicked troupe,
Will always group,
To slay the holy child.