Crack the Whip Poet
by MrDaMan
Virgil R. Hall II (Randy)

Sometimes I spend my mornings
stacking words in pretty mountains.
Creating vistas of spiritual soulscapes,
and painting perspectives with a pen.

Imagining darkness and light swirling
in shadows and twinkley bits.
Stirring monsters and angels in
an inkpot behind scarred eyes.

Whetting the mind with muddled conceptions,
whipping fantasy back and forth on a razor strop.
Sharpening reality on the rocks of broken dreams.
The flint that sparks unrelinquished desires.

Preaching to God for his entertainment,
the benefits of a devils tale of woe.
Of bottled fire and the waters of life,
bleeding and damned behind the conscience.

There will be an open viewing of death.
In a casket of truth and lies mirroring life.
The last will and testament bequeathing
mankind the gleaming black scythe.

We will forever walk upon the edge
sometimes falling to heaven or hell.
Gripping as long as possible, the middle ground.
The point, as bloody as ever… ink on our fingers.

It is the writing on the wall, our records of arrogance.
The red welt slap of the hand of God on our ass…
The destiny of free will, the knowledge of ignorance.
My pen has a muse that stacks words in pretty mountains.

Prose and poetry, the nectar of humanity.
Sour and sweet, hissing on the tongues
of snakes and lemmings, on sermons and politics.
Crack the whip poet… write on!