Sherwood Macabre

Steal from the poor
Give to the rich
Shovel corpses into a ditch,

Weir wolves on the moor
Muzzles of pitch
Consume nations coded eldritch,

There is no door
All windows are gone
Listening err's
On your telephone

Nothingness speaks
And it creaks in our bones
Golem damning the leaks
Imprisoning the ones,

Whom dare to reveal that hidden from view
Is now Hell in broad daylight
Like the turn of a screw
One size fits all

Shovel corpses into a ditch
National spoor
Give to the rich
Steal from the poor.



Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2013-09-11 at 14:57

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Some things never change. I suppose there's some comfort in continuity. Yet, the illusion persists that things will change, despite history's insistence that it won't, and every "people's" uprising has failed.
2013-09-15

Texts




Book Of Night
by Chaucer Whethers