Is it too much to ask...?

"These soured souls know no remorse, Slinking away from their perfidious discourse. "

The churches are empty, 
The naves swept clean. 
Have we lost the ability to dream and extol,
                                          As time extracts its nonredeemable toll?

Alas, mere victims of circumstance,
Adorning the primrose path,
Overgrown with morning glory,
                                          Too Petrified to face the garden's dark night.

When there are a hundred shades,
Of grey and black,
Dark shadows move about,
                                 The garden reeks, as the devil's work takes root.
 The churches are empty,
 The naves swept clean,
 Baptismal fonts,
                   Bloodied and barren,
                                Yon tapestries of red where faint children bled. 
In the dark halls of power
The deceit so ragged
The evil so rampant,
                                Ever so indelibly replete.

For the devil's claw there is no healing.
               For the pallid usurpers, there is, 
                                Endless double dealing, doubly crossed,
                                              Leading us to the page's edge,...
                                                          Or the abyss, we know not which.
                                                
                                                          E. E.  Cummings, where are you now?
                                                Form, function and poetry are remiss
                                    But a stolen, illicit kiss,
                Behind the gilded altarpiece,
 Pointy spires spike into gloomy vaults.

Is it too much to ask,
How much more are we allowed to say?
As the shadow of the eclipse races
Across torrid landscapes,
The dogs howl
 At the sudden coming of night,
The winds grow cold,
The horizon, but a ring of fire.
The moon, never so black
And the Sun’s penumbra so scolding,
So unforgiving.

The bastard children of the Revolution
                                    Shuttering the nation,
                                            Ungodly profanities they respeak,
                                    The front pews abandoned,
                      The back pews slumber on, 
The choir struck dumb. 

The pulpit sags and creaks,
As the cabal of infantile pretenders,
Shout their false prophecy, as slimy frogs, 
In medieval times.

They are the bastards of the Revolution,
                                       Drowning in their bigoted hate,
                                                The mercenaries of war and absurdity,
                                       Spew their bile at a world,
                        Knowing nothing, understanding nothing,
 Callously immune to caring.

 These soured souls know no remorse
 Slinking away from their perfidious discourse, 

The true prophets, as cherished mentors,
I, their dispassionate scribe—if only I were AI.
Their liturgy, bonded to ancient tongues,
Speak truth, unwavering in its birthright.
Their echos, springs of true intention.

My ire never sated,
The outrage of sorrow, 
Never complete.

I have much more to say,
Going beyond this hideous fray, 
Enticing my muse to stay,
Timely and constant,
True to its word in the light of day. 

The churches are empty, 
The naves swept clean. 

Is it too much to ask,
There,
Might be,
Another,
Better,
Time?

These soured souls know no remorse,
Slinking away from their perfidious discourse. 

---

History’s Parrot is read in 38 US states and 55 countries world wide.