Clear lines are in existence,
the gray ones drawn by Lucifer
wheras God's lines are black and white.
Too many venture near and then
without a further thought, they step
into attractive Nomansland,
where promises hang from the trees
and golden nuggets grow.
You must have missed the signs,
erected near the lines
your ears rejected shouts as well
of those who stood in silence
just wearing resignation on their faces.
And so you hopped across that day
olive green rucksack securely strapped
on broad and liberated shoulders
meandering through brush and swamp
your head surrounded by a swarm of flies,
a rabbit, not accustomed to a man
just sat and stared without a care.
It would be Easter soon, but not for you,
as fog rolls in, it spits its flecks of dew
onto your tainted skin, then seeks the ground
yes, darkness greets your eyes and blinks,
you are alone, with only your own mind
a proud triumvirate of spirit, heart and soul.
You flick your wrist as if to wipe away a voice
and it retreats into timidity at once,
you are the captain now, who conquers all
you are the finder of abandoned loot at last.
There is a shooting star, it has for you no use,
its journey fails to follow God's own plan.
It is too late, my brother, have you seen the star?
Flying so low and bearing silver-plated words,
'I've come for you, mon bon Monsieur,
and do exclaim, Bonjour Vengeance.'