The Call of the Waiting
By Myron K.
Pour out the blood ye Seraphim,
Man soft has sung his song: the knell
Of death-stained scythe and heroes fell,
A Prince of tears, and sullied whim.
Most sickly bears the loathing fang,
More keenly set than edge of blade.
A tempered peace and seeming fade,
The living flesh spits pungent tang.
Dazed Hypnos runs his adverse mile,
The Archfiend writhes in heinous cheer.
The brood of Light clasps shadows near,
Redemption sighs: a faded style.
The breath on glass, a wetted eye,
Torn children from their hearts in haste,
And granted shame once bourn away,
Return in hues of dreamy dye.
The demon paints a living end.
Fine cutlass, free the fallen Christ,
Release the dreadful sanguine heist.
The cursed path winds e’er wend.
Shame filled crossover drain the vim
Of forlorn kings and wicked men!
Quench the hunger crying ben!
Pour out the Blood ye Seraphim.