The Lord’s Fire

Fires seethe from the

Grapes of wrath,

Entwined with oats meshed

With the vile taste of

Failure.

Collected in my cusp is

The winded exchange of

Confounded tyrants plying

On unholy grounds.

They act of unmercifully

Towards the blistering rays

Of the sun, only to get

Burned up by the fire’s

They carry upon their bare

Backs.

Broken down and unplied,

Their tombs yield no grain

Of which to muster up their

Core.

All remains transformed into

Soot by the gold which be

In the eyes of the Lord.

I feed my anguish to the

Fires dwelling within

Turbulence:, For in the

Hours brought forth by

Father Time, I have

Walked many a lonely

Road in the darkness,

Searching for the cut of

Light.  However, I never

Found the Lord’s fire.

 

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016

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