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Late On The Night Of January 21st, 1924
My husband, who had ordered so much death,
could not avoid his last gasping breath.
The stars that glisten in the sky tonight
seem to bring a rather hostile light
to bear upon our ideology.
Scatter around him scented flowers; a whiff
of their scents to accompany that stiff.
I have a question that looms beyond the sight
of the Party; looming large, that once was slight;
now, a locomotive it rushes at me---
I hear the baleful tolling of its bell
But none among the comrades can I tell
my question, for Ilyich, about hell.
What if the Orthodox Church's Faith is right?
Starward-Led
Wow! And on a corollary
Wow! And on a corollary thought;
A Widow’s Lament in the Age of No Flowers
Late on the night of January’s frost, I watched my husband breathe his final cost. They brought him wreathes, they brought him song, they crowned his silence, they called it strong.
But I cannot forget the other ground, where no flowers bloom, no bells resound. The Romanov children, stripped and slain, their bodies hidden in Siberian rain.
Graveless, cancelled, erased from the page, yet their shadows rise to indict the age. No cenotaph, no marble stone, only whispers where they lie unknown.
And I, the widow, dare not tell my comrades of this thought of hell: What if the Faith they sought to kill still tolls its bell, relentless, shrill?
For one is celebrated, banners unfurled, while the others are banished from the world. Yet stars above, with hostile light, judge both alike in endless night.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
This should be posted as a
This should be posted as a poem, as it is far better than my poem!
Starward-Led [in Chrismation, Januarius]