Sunday, November 30, 2003

Killers in the Mist

Disguised as of the human race, evil strolled into the glade.
You know the place, cloaked in grace, one that God has made.
Then as an oak, a sentry spoke, a protector of liberty,
and extended a welcome to these blokes, into the land of the free.

"Hello, Arab. Or are you Jew? Though origin doesn't matter.
We've had quite a few, since our land was new; they mix into the batter.
Are you Polish? Chinese? Irish? Please don't bring your quarrels here.
Sure, we've got problems, more than we wish, but we've been working our way clear."

Throughout the land, the soldier trees protected all below:
the chickadees, the mice, the bees, fawns hidden by the does.
Smart songbirds knew, as rumors flew, what the Devil had in mind,
but his devious ruse was something new, of a cruel and nasty kind.

Far out in the seas, the leviathans gave a shield beyond belief.
The fleet so brave was riding the waves, keeping villains beyond the reef.
Engines roared and eagles soared, staunch guardians of the air,
warning off the evil horde, their screams proclaiming, "Beware."

But a demonic lord, vaingloriously proud, sent killers into the mist.
His black-hearted crowd hid in silver clouds, treachery in their midst.
Then the Twin Trees fell in a fiery hell and worker bees shriveled and died.
Rescuers rushed to answer the bell and hundreds were killed in their pride.

The Star of Power, though built to be lasting, was burning and rent in despair.
Without thunder crashing, or lightning flashing, destruction rained down from the air.
While on a captured bird those of courage would gird to save unknown fellows below;
calling down to their mates, they gave out the word that the unarmed would challenge the foe.

Evil incarnate cannot be denied, even when it surpasses belief.
Innocents died as the watchers cried, uniting in anger and grief
All had been sure that the glade was secure, a bastion of invincible power.
Such insidious terror was hard to endure; it seemed the darkest of hours.

Devils danced in the streets in eastern lands, hailing the carnage with glee.
But the glade still stands and the bereaved hold hands, proud that the fallen died free.
And true to the accord, though oft hard to afford, one must pay the price to be free,
from the scabbard of peace was drawn the sword that was forged to fight tyranny.

Copyright 2001-2003 by John Bushore.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

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