The Queen of the Underworld’s Sorrow
Coming from Kish, I met Abraham’s child
Who said: My vision is mere granite
Set in the wasteland. Nearby, on the gravel,
Nearly gone, a broken face lies, who’s sullen
Lined lips. and harsh authority,
Speak to me of a maker who knew too well the obsessions
Which we live by, marked on unconscious things,
While our hands lift ancient texts and the spirit that made them;
Here its legend still taunts:
“I‘m called Pathos, law of laws:
Look at what I can do, all who would persuade, and give up!”
But it gives me a headache and a back ache.
What else is there? Look around,
Beyond what is left of the works of Death. Ceaseless and exposed,
This solitary and flat world extends beyond night.
A good read Peter. I haven't been able to log on for a while. I enjoyed the poem and the subject matter.
Thanks Les. We are all victim's of the technology we willingly accept. Hope all's well.