It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link in the chain of destiny can be handled at a time. – Winston Churchill
I vow to thee, so is this day my fingers touch, dark clouds arrayed. The child’s red nose down near the Thames, I can hear it sniffle within my brain. The crowds all about in mourning love, they sway and they move, with the cantor’s thrust. Hymn oh hymn, delay, delay, I cannot leave this earth this way. The dark dress of the throngs I view. So many, so many, they pass my view. The spirit it moves in light so faire, beyond all England, without my care. So close these steeples, that I can touch, their steel damp smoothness, so cold it cuts. A kingdom comes, it falls so fast, now what is value, when breath is past. Intern it all, embalmed old crust, a shell for the living, in G_D they trust. But what of sweet Clementine standing there, in dark black linen, her eyes without care. Nothing matters, to be so plain, in death no vanity, no new worlds to claim. Without no battles, or worlds to claim, what is this death, what’s left to obtain.
The bells toll for something they cannot reach. Big Ben rings hallows from out of the streets, for just beyond that forthright, shadowed stack. Something in this shaded place is staring back, swaying in the tones that strike this day, comes a tall hat, swinging arms displayed. Oh, soul be ready stand firm, intact, be hard and willing to fight this back. This cold gray dawn beyond the grave sends errant adventure, that carries unto me his blade. The background roars with cannon fire, count ninety, nigh each year so far, but that is earth now pale below, up here in rapture comes such a ghoul. Be still my soul, oh G_D be still my soul.
Hark now the day mere men can’t touch, the knight of England, has hailed his last, while Hurrsars carry metals below, do bend the heavens for battle to show.
Does stride the man of Mahdist fame, who faced the Dervish, and wrote their fame, but something darker in death now be lames, calls for his rod now, his favorite cane. Give death its purpose beyond the grave, to face the ripper in heavens game. The shadow cometh, so loosed and bare, his white teeth flashing, his scalpel bare.
I vow to thee, I hear it play, my casket sails upon the Thames, below a funeral, above a war. Hear hark oh angels, my fate restored, to hand the evil, that blocks my way onward to heaven, his final fame. Let now his death be lost in flames.
I vow to thee, so is this day my fingers touch, dark clouds arrayed.
I wanted to write an October piece in the vein of “Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter”. It seems to me the purpose after death should not be to have no purpose, rather, a continuation of our destiny, do to what we do best. I am sure Winston Churchill, went on to destiny with further battles to overcome than those that were in his mind. It was surely his destiny to hold more ground. – 10.13.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל