12-18 Unsound Eye

This has an advent-apocalyptic spirit to it.

 

Unsound Eye

 

Holy, Father, Light of all light;

Prophets sing of hope and dread,

When tasting all the Good Book said.

In the morning star: delight!—

Amid the darkness, He gleams bright.

 

This age’s time is storming near:

A thermal apocalypse

Will broil with smoky eclipse.

Crops will wilt from charring shears

As tides submerge coasts, wharfs, and piers.

 

The Cyclopes yawns in rich array,

While outside the vineyard crusts,

And is crushed by volcanic dust.

He sips his chilled Cabernet

And cheers as lions claw their prey.

 

The prophets knew this grand design

Was not fate or tossing dice:

The Cyclopes’ breath melts polar ice

And lolls in his golden shrine—

And sneers at thoughts of One divine.

 

This generation shall see all,

But those with two eyes shall see,

The Lion racing shadowy

Through this terrestrial ball—

And listen for His final call.

 

 

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