For Jake Sisson
Tonight, the crazed few
Are dreaming in exact math
Their dark delusions
Of devouring daylight.
Their pestilence is one to watch
With an apocalyptical anticipation.
Their eyes have seen such things
As will soon be seen by all.
Their flesh has felt the fire
Of captivity. Their flesh has felt
The fire of an unfulfillable desire.
And from their muted breath
A howl shall be born. There is
No medicine to cure such madness,
The only cure is the purge,
And whether by death’s final
And whether by death’s final
Evacuation or the heave, the mighty
Heave of revolution, they shall purge
The poison that society gave them.
They shall spew the truth upon
The roofs of the government halls
And the expensive houses. They shall annul
The construct of innocence
And put a festive danger into the hands
Of the oppressed. The burden of truth
Shall no longer be theirs to bear alone.
The eternal plague of shadows
Will be acknowledged once again.
And the silence—that deep silence
In the corner of our living Hell
Will be heard and understood
And a whisper will fill it and become
A shout, and the great flame that rises
Will be the beacon that aligns the soul.
