Bad Moon Rising

Malice: An After Thought

Minerva's owl has departed,
Was it only a ghost?
A spirit that has left,
No solace.
I am and I am bereft,
No substance or clue.
Empty,
As a shell.
Crying rivers like promises,
No secrets to tell.

Here stands the grand old primate,
Regaled in glory!
Flesh stripped to the bone,
In sleepless caverns alone.
With callous nerve askew,
And powerfully weak.
Playing pawns with the game,
Beautifully bleak.

Whimsical portraits hung in effigy,
To art that is frozen.
An imagination of reality,
Proles sworn to fealty.
On this day,
We knew we'd rue.
Our mourning this morning,
Of comatose gloom.
As gladfully happy insects,
we praise the war drones of doom.

Wisdom (Fly Away)
Beauty (Fades to Black)
Goodness (An Anchor)

Truth be damned.