The Hungry Locust arrives
Wings hum a prophecy in the wind, veiling the sun in a churning tide.
Golden fields turn to hollow husks; whispers of hunger rise and collide.
No mercy in the swarming dark, only silence where life once thrived.
The Plague Rat takes hold
It slinks beneath the gilded gate, a shadow lost in woven lies.
Whispers drip like venom, slowly turning truth into hollow cries.
Hands that build now clutch and cling, protecting all they stole and claimed.
The Hands of Ash spread
Fingers trace the sky in smoldering streaks, turning towers to dust and streets to graves.
Smoke coils in whispers of what once stood, mourning echoes where laughter fades.
Roots unravel, homes unmade; the earth remembers what the flames erase.
Hope is poisoned
A golden thread was pulled thin, and then torn, dipped in doubt, and left to fray.
Hands reach out but find the void; voices wilt in silent decay.
The dream dissolves, the mirror cracks, tomorrow drowns in yesterday.
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Author:
The Inner Lens (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 19th, 2025 11:52
- Comment from author about the poem: This is a fusion of two relentless predators—each a force of ruin in its own right. The locust, embodying insatiable greed, strips the world bare, while the rat, steeped in corruption, festers within the cracks of power. Together, they consume, leaving nothing but scorched dreams and the shattered remnants of hope.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 9
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence, Muse of Calliope
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Comments2
Great poem with a wonderful metaphor that holds well until the end of the poem.
This poem is a dark reverie that goes deeper into the abyss peeling off each layer of existence, and each layer of non existence where the who nihilistic world collides into an escape. Like a dark night moth unfolding its wings.
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