What secret, selfish tricks were played
That fell and on one’s skin they flayed.
Unring the bell that unleashed hell
With floodgates smashed by anger’s swell.
No matter that when reckoning,
We see the boatman beckoning
To ferry souls burned black by one
Who bartered and forsook the sun.
Once time was counted by the days
And moonbeam metronomic ways.
Now only hours and minutes mount
With ragged breaths to keep the count.
Would, perhaps, the winds might blow
And offer hope to those below?
Or bury them with iron dust
Till metal hearts do seize with rust.
© Brandewulf 2018