Dark earth, worn ragged by stark drama of spirits clash - Deliverance is near.
Blasted and torn by volley hurled, your purpose is almost served.
Designed by God, a shelter and form for man, you have given untold spirits a place to stand and work out eternal destiny.
Now you wait - wounded, rivers clogged, breath stilled by heated bombs.
Held captive by darkness,
not your own making - have patience for a breath of time.
He who formed you has not forgotten.
He walked your shores and knew your hills - every particle and atom.
He died beneath your sky and overcame that dark illusion finally - then left.
You were once born, shaped by His own finger, darkness parted, sun lit, matter redeemed.
Your rebirth will be in heat, swift as lightening flash from East to West, leaving majesty scarcely dreamed.
Emerald hills and rivers sweet - Resting place where reborn meet - Artistry of God - I long for you.
Armegodon's armies are gathering…
On the side of each lighted shore shouting, “peace” in grave desperation.
Waiting feverish, the moment of war…
Bright visions of splitting the atom and tossing a man to the moon…
Intersperse, with knowledge of hatred, and unsleeping nightmares of doom
Perfecting devices of nations…
Unseeing their brother's raw pain…
Awarding metallic citations…
They brood over coveted gain…
Is there no pathway to follow than grey war, bloodsoaked, diseased?
Do we have no other volition, no choice for cool green moments of peace?
Still, the moment's surrounding us, as soft as the hurricane's eye
And they call as lively as children
In the seconds before they all die.
So swiftly time's channel, onrushing propelling frail life's bark to sea.
Lights on the shore brightly flashin, message of endings to see.
Oh, why can't I sail on forever, brother of stars in the sky?
Why bones and tissues dissolving…
Shivering, knowing I'll die.
The craft is so frail - the voyage so brief…
Death is so certain – disasterous thief.
Things long undone come to taunt me.
Withholding illusions of dreams.
Places unseen move before me…
Shaped vaguely in unfinished seams.
Oh, why can't I hold them forever?
Bright lights, evening breeze and ship's bell…
Why must they move out of memory,
Their wake a forgotten, lost knell.
Still as I move, I sight a star unwavering blaze of ancient light.
Created for this pain of mine…
To pierce the dark of night, made by a hand so almighty
Contemplation moves me to tears.
And I know in sudden elation, the mirage is what is called years.
The craft is frail…
The voyage brief
The journey certain…
But not toward grief.
Opaline Marks is the pen name of Opal Markiewicz, a writer of novels, short stories and nonfiction essays.