And so it shifts. It lifts. It swings.
Winging wide from there to there
While lunging first low. Then high.
Bouncing from extreme to extreme.
The organ grinder at the wheel
Will turn and turn and turn,
Making monkeys dance as dollars
Freely fall from many false heavens.
The prophets are preening.
The victims keening and careening.
They are bandied about and butchered
Like cattle bought at an old world auction.
Where are the sell-sword saviors,
The mystics, or magisters of old?
No more shamans, just alchemists
Selling so many fools out for gold.
Whispers to willows to witchwoods,
These castles becoming cairns,
While we wait for our salvation, alone,
As dusk deepens on the widow’s walk.
© Brandewulf 2018