They would have tossed one in the bog
to startle archaeologists
had one emerged from ancient mists
an apparition from the fog
due to the webbed toes on one's feet.
They'd think themselves assured of rain
with an abundance of fresh meat.
I'd think them addled in the brain.
I'd think them blarmy bananas mad.
But then I think the present lot
the slaves of every fearporn fad
that slices in yet hits the spot.
I've wondered if rain might be wrung
from steaming blood, if that was it,
because of rain on battles flung.
But where then do bog people fit?
What use was it to throw them in?
What was the profit from the sale?
And did they keep them in a pen
or were they in some sort of jail?
And then there were the children left
on mountain peaks to die of cold
by Incans, dying in the cleft.
We still do, if one may be bold,
such sacrifice. We've changed the look,
outsourced the blood to foreign parts,
crammed muffled screams into a book.
We've come a long way since our starts.
The pages of the histories scream,
they're deafening, while turning them.
It hurts and yet it is a dream.
A jagged clock cloaks history's hymn.
A jagged clock cloaks history's hymn,
utilitarian true love
amid pained matter crude and dim
joy's music, a descending dove.
His planet spins not for the goals
we set, the glory of our race
or nation, but the choice by souls
of whether to behold His face.
