Gift For the Wise

Luminance covering Lucifer, a pitchfork dripping white,
The tempter enters into life in the guise of an Angel.
All was sunshine and all was rainbows,
A dim dusk, a dull dawn, the colours had not known.
Walks in the park, with yellow flowers to give company,
Flaming yellow flowers in the boughs all around,

Burns to beautify and scars to sanguine,
Walking in glee, through purgatory, with breezes storming,
Gentle ruffle of the hair while worlds ripped apart.
Feast of the senses, the wine of sweat flows free,
An exhilarating exhaustion, the labour of limbs and all else,
Lustrous and luxurious, yet shorn of virgin glory.

A full hand wishing fuller fingers, to rob empty hands,
Armour of emerald, spear of jade, to shield, to stab;
Blood pumping through brothers, in combat to kill.
As shepherd is sown into the soil by the farmer,
Where bone rots, and His kingdom lies disinherited;
The green eyed walk by nonchalantly.

With ever expanding coffers, built with walls of coffins,
Housing those with, not dignity, but denied opportunity,
Lying face down on, looking at, the earth they so loved,
Lying like the lizard they listened eagerly to,
Advocating the virtue of the prince they worshipped,
Toads of Mammon holding close their offerings to him.

Bloated bellies and expectant eyes; skeletal carcasses
Loading plates they dare not devour. Dinner tables floating,
When the sun is high; thru rivers of wine, flowing from lip to luscious lip,
Of pork; dead and succulently cooked, eaten with siblings
In flames, in toil, eaten while they still boil; with flesh and blood,
Passed over from tummy hungry and throat parched, thru a hand of plenty.

Passed over, yet buried, the virtues and talents are,
Idle workshops, idle as the snow bird’s wings,
Lost in laze, with lioned streets striking fear, preventing work,
Careless to catch morsels of talent thrown around,
Walking on hedges of willed thorns, hopes turned to apathy,
Talented chiefs slaving under lesser beings that merely stand and wait.

Thrones of air, upon fair frothy nimbus palaces,
Where maidens and fair lords look out from mirrors,
Looking in are faces that drown, in themselves; in vain,
His favourite sin, as it mothered his transit,
From a servant to the master; and fathered war.
Fighting Sisyphean battles to sing better than the next peacock.

Deprived and lost, arises a fire, stronger than all else,
Rising from scorn; scorning the Son and scorned by the Father.
Burning all else around it, even the bonds that tie,
A desire for vengeance, avenging wrongs done, thru more wrongs done,
Rage for an eye for an eye, a burning rage to burn the burner,
Ending all, not needing the gifts laid there for the wise men.