The Machines of Abaddon

The machines of Abaddon were awing,
Whirling as locusts in a swarm,
Each spinning a thin black silk,
From which soldiers descended,
With guns in their hands, firing wildly.

Their wings were beating upon the waves,
Upon the surface of the eternal sea,
With a noise like many war chariots,
Rushing into battle, or a whir of wasps,
Eager to attack, to maim, sting and kill.

Then men in black uniforms,
With eyes like Eichmann,
Dropped upon the decks,
Firing their rifles at anyone,
Who dared defy their orders.


And Satan smiled at all his works,
Dipped his pen, inked his curse,
With the waters bright with blood,
As the world lay bound in chains,
Trapped in the past, ignoring today.