Synoptic

Nuggets of gold, to the touch is cold.
a perceived treasure.

Warmth of flesh, is always fresh,
a value beyond measure.

Do not be misled, real value, it is said.
Love for others, gives immense pleasure.

TarQUIN

March to Megiddo

As they march to NosgoroV , across the Abysmal plain.
My eye alights upon a red rose, growing against the grain.

Warmongers awaken, Eire hate aggression  WAR!!

Anger obliterates doves with a wild blood drenched claw.

Guns & sites of man align, the red rose is always at peace.
The machinations of WAR roll on, now awakening Valhalla's feast.

The red roses beauty under-filed, a pure vision before the dawn.
Of a plain spotted with vast crimson flecks, before the end of this days morn.

Feet that march ordered aligned, whilst all reasonable minds drift asunder.
Forced to violence boots, by minders violent religious pulpit talk plunder.

Man ruling men will lead to a familiar absolute destructive imagery,

Lemming like obedience of  boots again hurrying towards inhuman savagery.

How many good men to walk off a cliff, before reason shocks their tiny brains?
Enough men really, before the notice of a tiny red rose, growing against the grain.

A time of times beyond the line, awaits this single fragile thought growing.
A tiny dove, rose in beak, spreads a message, from which true peace shall finally be flowing.


QJD 2019