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| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 03-June 05:07:51 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 1520
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Burning Churches
[time] => 2002-07-31 20:44:20
[hometext] => Despite its title, this one really isn't blasphemous at all. In fact, this is probably the most romantic of all my works, a lovely story that's set in an old cathedral graveyard. I hope you enjoy it.
[bodytext] => There’s nothing glorious to our work
nothing right or wrong we like the way it glitters, jerk, so let it glitter on. We see the ashes rise all night as tortured souls are saved. We hear the groans of fire’s might that free the silly slaves. We kiss and make sweet love right there upon the hallowed ground, Romantic as the stars we share that twinkle all around. The cemetery down the hill is held by fire ants and underneath the sacred soil, ancestors shall dance. They take back what is theirs by right, and powerfully claim the turf on which they live tonight, they will achieve their aim. They clamber through the wilted sand and aerate the soil, and all the while the ants stand, preparing their recoil. In the dancing orange beast is seen The Open Book. The creatures new are drawn to it. They have to take a look. So up the hill they slowly stride awaiting their rebirth the ants cling on until it’s time to prove their insect worth. Once the leader’s at the top, the chieftain ant lets loose and orders all the fire ants to break the ant-corpse truce. With tongues of rot, they cannot scream, their throats are dry as dust, they feel no pain but only dream patiently, as they must. They dream the ants will not remove the flesh they have preserved as flame illuminates the hole from which the eye once served. Without a sound, the leader form reached the heavy door, went on inside and freed himself, along with eighty more. They laid sans rest or slumber true for some two hundred years and now they can release themselves and squelch eternal fears. The ants that once did overrun the holy grounds are gone. They fought as one and died as one but no more carry on. The giant oak with iron crest has sealed itself closed tight. The stained windows glow the best lit from inside at night. The roof caves in, the altar burns, the crucifix ablaze lets every ******* child know they are no longer slaves. There’s nothing more romantic, see, than freeing withered dead. Though crippled slaves they used to be, the ants who bound them bled. The tomes and swastikas that sealed the fates of Fates inside are crippled well, it is revealed, by refusal to hide. The world spins ‘round and machines quake, a new child is due, so let me dedicate this count to someone special, you. There’s nothing glorious, you see, to all the work we do. The glory lies within the strength of those who cannot rule. So now you know to move along from where the flesh-beast lurches. We have it all under control. We’re all just burning churches. [comments] => 4 [counter] => 300 [topic] => 2 [informant] => Butterat_Zool [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => LovePoetry )
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