Canto XI: Wicker Baskets
© 2019, Olan L. Smith
Hey, harbingers of the forest, climb the tree
Reach the highest bough to see what is come!
The end comes for you, tree-by-tree, until you
At last all are felled by the battleax, and then pray
The edge is keen, and no pain is given to you,
In this the last-of-days. From the field of corn
To the apex of the timbers, plead the four winds
Pluck you before the time is nigh. It's well you
Don't taste the pangs of the awful death planned
This world by forces of the combined thoughts in
The heavens. Listen to the poets warnings of the date,
For the people will not be spared the punishment for
Their sin's given this world. This the blight of ages come
To revisit those who think they are rulers of all they
See, but the minuscule will fell the human beast without
A single whimper, as its guillotine descends, pray
The blade is keen. Death is come, pray for swiftness,
And the head that is dispatched finds the wicker basket.
YOU ARE READING
Poets of Life
PoetryThis is a epic poem broken up into cantos and cover the inner voice of my poetic mind. The cover photo belongs to the author, Olan L. Smith, and all copyrights apply.
