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
Here on our island in the middle of the Sea,
My ninety-nine siblings and I live as kin.
We are raised together as a family
Taught only of love, and rarely of sin.
We all have one Father and no mother
But we know we were made from one.
He is the creator of this place and of us,
And we love him dearly for it.
Our home is a gorgeous and virgin place,
Our minds are free from outside influence.
We were once children of the human race
Today we exist out of providence.
It has been said that we children shall have
All that our humble hearts can desire.
Under His care, guidance, and protection,
We will avoid the fate our parents did not.
Prophecy is a powerful thing,
And even here it has spoken.
One bright day, Something will arrive
To stir up conflict and create disorder.
We are separated from the dangers of Zion
By an endless sea, which keeps us from our evil dreams.
But now, dark storms are building on the horizon;
I believe they are omens of impure schemes.
At the end of Harvest, some of us run around naked,
Others make love or play around in the sand.
It is ritual, which like the sun, maintains tradition.
The festivities culminate in the Mass Feast,
Where we gather and eat like a family.
But Metis and Tantalus, with their bold new philosophies,
Claim to re-discover the whole world each and every day.
The way they speak of how all this proceeds
And I am fearful something dreadful is on its way.
© 1999-2022 Eric P. Metze