i have an endless number of names throughout the ages
whatever my nom de plume, i am the author of insanity
inside the minds throughout all of time and space
and now i will vindicate the credenda of sages
bringing forth a deadly agent, bred by humanity
weed out the weak willed, and restart the human race
perched on a wire, i am the Raven with Furious eyes
i quietly observe a hapless service station, with its regulars
assiduously sloth-like, unaware that fate barrels toward them
tragic people, in a desolate town, slowly rotting away in a tainted age
the world is tainted, illumination would be unnecessary
i will do it in secret, my way, starting today
rain rolls off my feathers, a moment of dread settles over me
i give it little thought, i ignore such-prognostications
this is humanity’s baptism, and i am preparing it for the afterlife
in a contemporary chariot of a hundred horses comes the Homo campion
easily spooked, he now carries a certain little something in his blood
he brings the sickness across this country, this nation, this world
soon hospitals will be saturated by the sick
waiting rooms around the world will serve
as makeshift churches and bus stops to the afterlife
the sick are there for a reason, yet there is no reason to be there
flesh, my metaphor metal, makes me think of busy stations
people in a hurry honking and cussing, speeding and rushing
waiting for their turn seems to be a trick
all of them have come to see the professional
the doctor will poke and twist, prod and test
they thank him, pay him, leave him, and still they are sick
the impatient will demand attention-Stat!-
the classic will swallow an innocuous pill, all is well
the resilient wallow in their own misery, misery
truly, it matters not what rituals they perform
they swell, and their starving bodies will leave only bones
those who survive will remember it vividly
my mind laughs, but my throat says caw!
i see fortunate few wandering this torn land
this united nation has been-divinely-separated
my legion of fearful minions, their legion of weakling lambs
we will reside in Cibola, our western desert island
they will exist near a painted red rock-let them
then the true epic will begin, in a once sinful city
and likely, that is where it will end
they will see my one true face with crystalline lucidity
and that is when i make my stand
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