Spirit Apocalypse
Entropy dreams of its Creator
under the burning blanket
of wild horses slaughtered
of eucalyptus torches slow
roasting
marsupials,
of its enemies hogtied helpless
if not as yet quite mastered,
all things of beauty bent
to the wheel of avarice
as the spotted pony runs
as the devil drowns
in sympathy
in sycophants
in syncopated strategies
of the smallest minds now
suddenly somehow successful.
We wait for the tide
to rise, the Earth to speak,
for the wild appaloosa
with our handprint
on its flank to find us,
for the ash
to heave up the white buffalo,
the soul we weep for
to race oblivion
of wave and fire, drought and famine
to bear us
where we may buck and strain
to cut the cords that
crack the bone
of this ravaged
rock on fire
calling to the spirits
for the spotted pony
the white buffalo
the avenging angel
as if we know them,
with only the death's head grin
of the four bleached horsemen in sight.
~November, 2019
Images: War Pony II, by Sarah Lyn Richards. All Rights Reserved to Artist
White Buffalo, by Cuzco. All Rights Reserved to Artist
