Ghosts of the MachineA Poem by El ChicoPredictions of Old, Oracles of the NewI deploy sharp words
pulsating replete with anti-venom Feel me pierce your
skin to the bone, clean-snapped be your throne A cure of sorts,
beknown to the worthy, felt strong by all maleficence --- The Serpent reaps his
unjust reward co-opted from the many, led by the putrid few Surprised to know
this are you, real be he, the most unworthy Forget thee of your
ghost in this machine, wake up from your dream A wicked song for those lost in riches, sipping jinn to cast thy spells Drunketh on the
artificial dollar, say 'o thee secret scholar Leave the poor to rest in peace, they be dead laid waste in ditches Smoked-bone-dry of all bar
golden hope A blood sacrifice in vein, I decree the begineth of the crying game --- No mercy in the last
days for the followers of greed Hold thee up high
beyond a crying face, a reeping shall take place Recoil from the
staining of spattered blood, they no longer see one's need
to pray for a better day --- Claims to freedom
madeth by many, so bravely upheld by as few as two Alone and cold fear
not, one never be this day nor next --- In the deepest of caves the call is heard Not-that-which-a-sound may burn feathers-of-a-bird A new day dawns the planes, as creatures lie in wake for the escape From the heavens
above as shall be below A brave new world think not, no-world-order from chaos, you are gravely mistaken --- Make hast to hear
this call, that which is silent to your ears Or render you asleep
to scinder with howls as thee falls --- The fight cometh to your door, no mark left to ricoche and save the young like before A revealed testament
of faith Cry not you or I in
pain, assign thee no blame, for in these ends… this be just a game --- Least yee be dead
serving the one whose riddles end with a name. © 2015 El ChicoAuthor's Note
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