The West Wind

Black shapes in the night

But they'll be of no use here.

The red wind, assailing and churning,


It beats a bitter watch against the current

Over mud sludge water, half a glowing misty moon

Somewhere out on the sky.



It's purple there, but that's too happy.

Juxtaposed perfidy and ostentatious superfluous

verisimilitude.

Obstinacy.

Well, it's true is it not?

But the price of the mutilated neck of the songbird

in the hand of a lovely nymph?

Tinkerbell or Juliet or Brunhilde. Is there valor?

Where is the sword?

The anger, the fight, the madness within?



Dark swirling snows sweep the cobblestones, as

Up above, shapes fly and die.

The one rule is broken, and chaos is driven in from

the wastes.

The crags and chilled boulders, grey with heat and

hot with experience and exhaustion.

Well-seasoned they call him, rugged.

In the land of the blind...

Well the armed man is king.



From the depths of slackened, failed beauty,

The remnants of the Martian landscape long forgotten,

now a mere Hellish den for the lifeless ones

To the exalted heights--Asgard itself, where dwell

the brave at heart.

Over all, the silence is daunting,

And the white-hot flame cries out for flesh.

He'll consume all, most especially the wood-nymph,

Washed down with a hearty bucket of mead,

Carnal, gluttonous, and malignant.



Back in this fierce and fearsome desert, no droplet

survives.

Will the hangman come?

Or is it water we fear, The Lake?



With scales and razors, the beast approaches.

Who will greet him?

Who will proclaim, "Here is our earth! Be welcome,

eat your fill!"?

None will!

He's here already, he's come already.

And we'll stand atop the highest tower and offer the

salvation, the death cup of the world.

We'll offer it freely because possession is convenient,

and ideals are vague and unyielding.



No elven bows will save us this time,

We are alone. And we'll devour ourselves in the slums

of the wretched world.

With the sword and with the gun,

Hear them scream and see them run.



Fear is infectious, and Death is impatient.

Loathsome creatures all.



Salvation of humanity lies elsewhere.

Within, without, don't ask.

Let the little whelps scurry.

See what help comes!

Where is your god now?



Perhaps under cover of darkness resistance rises,

unknown.

"Remember, remember" they say. It's coming.

The climax is imminent.

Soon, the final doom is decided.

Where we will go I do not know, but better there

than here, I think.

At least for now.



For I do believe.

Something flies on the West Wind.

There is the horse and the rider.

There is the horn that was blowing.

And perhaps we'll meet again.
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