The Army of Money

In a war of secret souls,
When all that can remain in the end
Is rust and blood,
The instruments of the end,
However come upon,
Are at the expense of the forgotten;
To be forever debated
In the dimly lit halls of our tabloid age,
Never to be told in truth and honor,
Never to be told in truth and honor.

And the obituary page is our black wall of carved names,
With no mourners but those we have touched,
And the icy stare of those we have wronged,
Making us the destitute sages of forbidden wisdom,
Until all that has gone before
Spirals into the swirling vortex of resentment,
Into the swirling vortex of resentment.

But perhaps in some distant future -
Maybe on some crisp autumn day,
With the painful blue sky illuminating the pallet earth -
Our descendants will expose the army of money,
And its clandestine sentinels that brandish chests with medals,
And bright red ties,
Forever feeding the starved
With the very flame that burns their spirit,
Living, never changing, in every neighborhood;
Every studio apartment;
Every single skull
Bending in silent servitude to the army of money.

All that is left,
After this holocaust of the soul,
Is the very silence within where the Prophets heard voices.

© Andrew T. Durham, 2007