Poem-A-Day: Day 34

44

the cold steel flashes brilliantly
and fades to gray
in callow hands
sallow eyes
and flaccid fingers probing gently
amongst the pile of dead.

the diadem is no more diamond
than it is a golden halo of thorns
shattered softly on a furrowed brow
sweating bullets.

the ground is soft and malleable
and it pings metallic
rings ironic
and washes thoughts away
in crimson tides drowning borrowed souls.

the trumpet sounds spewing flames
glorious in hues of blues and reds
leaving burnt ember husks
still smoldering
tinder in the hand of god’s callous grace.

all worship the same devil
raining death
reigning death
from high above the skies
clouded by the cinder smoke
and reflected on the scarred land.