The missing prophecy

i’ll harvest the chicken bones 
from the fields of blood stones 
i’ll leave them to ripen on the moon
till they fall of in the month of june 
onto the path where the pious balk 
to litter the path i will walk 
like broken burning glass flowers in bloom 
i shall have permission to borrow Hels broom
to sweep them up in my dance of the reap 
into a sack in which i shall climb to sleep
high up in the tangled mountains of ascendency 
where my tossing and returning hammer of dependency
will grind them bones into the finest choking dust 
to feed the lesions growing like mold on my crust 
while for three cold days and three frigid nights 
with the fallen kings betrayed by their knights
sitting cloaked in their finest tattered clipped wings
looking like all the evils found in a propaganda fable
i shall share with them the last marriage feast at Hels table 
pouring into our thirsty goblets the juice 
from one freshly melted black candle of abstruse
to wash down the succulent dragon bull meat 
shredded by our thorny crown of teeth tired of wheat 
i shall return with the kings as the world ignites
when after feasting three days and three nights
the four bell towers of Lyssa will have taken the place
of the four pillars that held up a world that destroys grace
then from each of the towers their bell shall toll three chimes 
so the enemy may know the price of their mortal crimes 
then from my sack i shall step a dog with kings into a world yet unborn 
to destroy the enemy as has in some vague scripture been forsworn

© bg 2012