The Messenger

The air is polluted with the stench of insincere repent
And the prophets are reeling
A voice once crying in the wilderness has been silenced
Gone are the days of warning
Bundle your children and hold them close to the burning hearth
But not as a sacrifice
The smoke-filled air is worn as a cloak by the messenger
Who stands eagerly in wait
A chain of iron worn round his waist circumvents the globe
To a lock without a key
At the appointed time, a stomp of the messenger’s foot
Shakes the mountains to the sea
And the children still ask in wonderment, what have they done?
As if they are not to blame