Nothing here is real

Oh how he drove this: his Trojan horse before his  cart.
As the Gods  trumpets, thumped  the scrolling, rolling clouds
Towards  Golgotha’s weak and  cracking falling  crown.
Oh Such Sour triumph was made so crystalizingly clear  
Despite the deep and bitter whip of his fetteredcurses.

Oh how the Gods giggle, goggling  the slicing pain.  It clings
So severely  to the skin, that cuts through the soft linen clothes
While we deride and then divide him in this clowns charade.

Shall the words  of Venus rise to a brand new calling?
Are the old gods  standing at skyfall as the world is crumbing?
And  what  will happen as they flee on  drays  made of cumulus?

These false  buttresses. They   are made of both stone and clay
And their hollow  voices  are rock drums  full of empty  clamour
For within their pride  rises weak and pompous  ceremony
Though the crowds call simply rises for more bread and circus's
While the rainbows are broken to glitter out  sweet tonics of colour.

And the  rock  with roll wrestles at the  gate;
With eyes if bitterness s  remorse  and hate .

© ADH

All rights reserved