The Aerostar Plane

Death from the mysterious mystic
beyond has, made its show.
Larceny being its claim.
The theft of death taking you,
from me. It most assuredly
cannot be the skills of
God, the creator and ruler
of the universe. It is
nothing more than the greatest
performance ever, the chief of
evil spirit, a supernatural being,
subordinate to and the foe
of, God as well as,
temper of, man shall ever
give. He the cursed devil
lavishing the tail of, The
Aerostar Plane, with, the brilliance
of yellow gold flames, they
tools of Satan, flickering and,
glittering like that of the
Devil's Kingdom of Hell as,
a helicopter engulfs its back.
It being, The Aerostar Plane
as, it soars through the
sky with, a United States
Senator, inside. It suddenly forced
to the ground then, blown
to hell spreading the devil's
fire all around. Bodies laying
here and there. As for
our, United States Senator, Senator
John Heinz, he lay on
the ground. He there alone
having tear stained cheeks; he
crying and I not there
to wipe them dry. Why
is it, our Senator did
cry? It is but, I
the poet who lives on
living within, the memories of
you, mourning your death, accepting
it not. My weeping eyes
of blue fearing without your
love live, I cannot. Enduring
it all as the shadow
of death lingers on, leaving
in its path, costumes of
black, a freshly covered grave,
flowers abundance. From I the
poet, roses of passion, they of the
deepest red. Unfulfilled love, loneliness
reaping a broken heart, aching for,
love, he given. Tear filled
eyes like that of a
ocean. The horror of it
all being, parts of, The
Aerostar Plane, a wing over
there, a battered engine here
and more to be found
along with glass, all over the
ground. It seeming to be the,
chief supernatural's greatest performance ever however,
the grandess most magific of all
is, the theft of death taking,
Thou United States Senator, Senator John
heinz to the mystic beyond. It
is but, I the poet defying
death, refusing God his right, fearing
him not, accepting the mystic beyond
for, our Senator not. Superficial, with
me he has been since the
day death made its claim. Loving
is what I feel. The coolness
of a ghost I, feel not. The
warmth of your love, the feel of
your touch you, loving and calm, restless
not. The chief Supernatural just cannot win.
In time the valhallas will be searched.
He, not being a ghost to be
found; tis I defying he, life's end.

by Edith June Rouse

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.