The Prophecy of J. Cooke, Solicitor General 1649

May the poor have a voice
Rising above the crest of arms
And sea of gold and title.


Sovereigns who claims their step
Sets upon the heads of their people,
Like a graceless fate, forsake Law.


To be held in silence,
Hidden from all eyes,
Is crime beyond terror.


It births the curses
Of torture, iniquity, and strife,
Nursing Imperium injurious.

Icarus

Chemtrail wings melt upon the blue page. 

Rays pour gold in open hands, the wage. 

Exalt the tones tucking shame in consonance. 

Every flight soars past spoken resonance. 

The pale affront here lies. 

Apostasy lifts eyes 

to seek Gods in bright skies.

Ipseity

It moves sinuously,
drawing in claws to
part locks lovingly.

It rises heedlessly,
pushing up skies to
fill day's pit endlessly.

Fear what must come.
The birth of this light
scalds solace dumb.

It dies easily,
drawn by zero
lastingly.