In this Martian, barren land
Upon a rustic hill I stand
on this ground no being breathes
to allow for ghastly, ghoulish deeds.
Phantoms reek of mystic smells,
And devils ring their wailing bells
Whose voices warn of blasphemy
And sing of brewing agony.
No protest comes from those deceased,
Their bodies slain with frightful ease.
A sickle formed of lust and greed
Carried out this gruesome deed.
Gods bear witness to my crime
Condemning this sold life of mine.
The children vanish in the sand
and out protrudes their withered hands
I feel my burning blood on fire
As I amass this desert pyre.
Caustic flames rise to the surface.
To kill was not my only purpose
with sickle in my hand I pass
the carnage strewn among the grass
So on this foreign craft I board
contrition being my reward
for reaping virgin souls alike
and departing in the dark of night
In this land no mortal lives
without a blade stuck in their ribs
Winds of cipher sing a dirge–
The only sound that can be heard.
2 comments
What are mystic smells like? For some reason, that imagery makes me think of smelling baked potatoes while standing in the middle of Stonehenge. Liked the poem, though – very visceral.
One pet peeve of mine: “Winds of cipher sing a dirge–” — would flow better as, “Wind of ciphers sing a dirge–” or “Winds of cipher sings a dirge–” Probably the second rather than the first, but either would probably work.