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Photo by Almos Bechtold on Unsplash

The Seeds of Wrath burn
Like an ember sparked on dry twine —
Spreading its wildfire, swirling
In a blaze of savage fury.
Clusters of souls meet their demise,
Ravenously greated by a murder of crows,
While a select few encroach upon the sacred territory.
We stand here, forever engulfed in flame,
Our skin burning to a crisp, blood boiling
Unrecognizable are the true features of our souls;
The loving, the sweet, the gentle, the kind.
That makes us human — our blood flows red, too.
Not even the scavengers dare feast on the scab,
Lest they become victims, themselves
Of the Unforgiving Blaze.

The Seeds of Wrath drown, submerged in the Great Abyss —
Neither fish nor fury will come about.
They find themselves headed to the shore
Fearful of the unrelenting gravitational pull
Of the black hole in the sea,
From which no sailors have returned
They scatter themselves in the sea and on land.
Hear Neptune’s deafening call from the Deep,
“O! How bitter the seed swims!”
It burrows, deep below the desolate fields
Through the echoes of cries never heard
By the deafened ears, the hardened hearts
Of all who have not had to tame the beast.
The prelate prays in veins for those who died,
Their souls never found nor remembered,
While the blood of soldiers pour, gushing,
Staining the ground that once gave us life.

Behold, the Seeds of Wrath,
They are sown into a quilt, whose design shall bear no fruit
The decrepit plowshare, rustled beyond repair,
Shall fall into disuse soon.

Alas, there is a stirring in the ashes
A weak crowing emanates,
And buds begin to sprout on neighboring trees
Once devastated beyond hope.
It is true, the call of the Phoenix
Brings new life, new hope to all.
Even the Seeds of Wrath can bring,
When the outlook is bleak
A hand to guide us through.

Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Global Forum Online has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.

B. Tom Moskwa is a writer currently working on a semi-autobiographical historical fiction novel called “Paper Planes,” which he hopes to publish after his release from prison. He is incarcerated in California. B. Tom Moskwa is his pen name.