Poetry-Thing Thursday: Ensouls the Wraith

Out to pasture,
these weary eyes.
No more a master,
of bidden disguise.

When of fate we think,
or the fruit of Knowledge seek,
to satiate or drink,
we recognize the meek.

Inherit wisdom,
a fist to raise when,
enthralled by freedom,
controlled by a wasteful then.

Violence abhorred,
a beast unbidden,
peace had soared,
but never been ridden.

Masks of faith,
unruly with hate,
ensouls the wraith,
whom did the dove, decapitate.

Mongering fear,
missing their prophet,
a silent tear,
they’ve all but forgot it.

Should history again come to pass,
know you are not the last,
to shed grief from Man’s outcast.
You’ve only the Earth as your lass.

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