Sunday, 7 December 2008

The Ravens

This is apoem about how the liberals that have created our sick society are not part of it. Whilst they live in their all white enclaves they dare tell others about the nature of our society, and that we are 'racists' for daring to deny the propaganda of their multi-cultural utopia.

This is a poem about how a liberal who loses their way in the city will have to face reality - a reality they have never known and will lie about in order to ensure the survival of the liberal system itself, regardless of how many people are victims of it.

The Ravens.

Terror for a liberal is easy to define,
It is reality as opposed to their lies,
It is the empty city street at midnight,
Where they fear to walk unseen,
The black pits of liquid shadow,
That sit between the street lights,
Where no-one will ever hear you scream,
It is the killing grounds of the pack,
Where death awaits, hooded and impassive,
As a panther in the forest depths,
That treads soft between the moonbeams,
Seeking the safety of a killing shadow,
Here in this wild and feral darkness,
Untamed by electricity or laws,
Where criminals will await the unwary traveller,
And anoint them with a crown of thorns.

You have just your own lies to protect you now,
So many of them and all as weak as straw,
You delusions cannot defend you,
For all your power and privileges are nowhere near,
As footsteps draw close behind you,
Moving ever closer, too close to bear,
The truth awaits you in the shadows,
As a wolf lays in wait for a lamb,
Its maw is wet with temptation,
Its talons flexed and razor sharp,
Ready to rip the clothes from your back,
And tear the scales from your eyes.

This lie is the fly blown messiah of your world,
Infecting the souls of the fallen,
With both its curse and its cure,
It shall reign in freedoms palace,
Until the wolves have had their fill,
And abandoned the carcass of their kill,
For what remains is for the rats and crows,
The red scraps of meat upon white bone,
Shared out amongst the pack,
Though you can see a light in the windows,
No-one is home and no-one cares,
They will watch you dying in the gutter,
But none will dare return your stare,
Every stranger just keeps on walking,
For fear the pack is nearby and still stalking.

The ravens return to their roosts,
And watch from the rooftops,
With eyes as cold as frosted iron,
Perched upon the red brick chimney pots,
As priests before an open grave,
They await another imminent corpse,
To amuse them again for a moment,
Their beaks are wet with blood,
Their bloated bellies full of flesh,
Torn from the lies of the liberal consensus,
That hangs rotting upon its rough cross,
Yet is worshipped always as a god,
By those who speak only lies instead of truth.

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