"Seven."
We seek impoverished realms
take all we survey,
trample the tide of humanity
dismember love.
Peer into our void
eyes full and green
waiting
watching
wanton
the congregation we hold.
Their belief's rip the ether
open doors,
empowerment
without choice
our number swollen with
seven signs carved
disciples crave
pulling every sinner
before our truth.
Brethren,
we are not the number of the beast
nor God
whom glide effortlessly
through lore
and dreams
humankind mirrored in every ill
thought conceived
the image created
before you
as we unleash from every corner.
Faith and hope
will draw their final breath.
© 2008/2017 Michaela James.
