The Victory

the clues point to this—
unequivocal victory,
our masters’ writ and power
revoked, the old owls scattered,
mobbed and bled dry by
one million million outraged
human souls in white martyr’s
vestments, and a host of holy
singing children, fearless introducing
Christ power—creator and destroyer
of cosmoses—like a great tablecloth
descending on the apportioned place
of meet, the banquet bench of white
endless alabaster for the saints and
angels—we feast on flesh of
Leviathan—dismembered misery,
gone like rootless weeds,
and we stand grounded midst the
mercy seat, where our Lord took
fright and saw the wrath of
a blasphemed father, sealing
all inside his shadow—it is
finished, and never to allow again
our selves to suffer, free from
sin and gallows, now fuel for the
cosmic bonfire, giving birth
as some birds do to newness,
unveiled light of recreated Eden,
Our salvation—King Jesus,
King Joshua, redeemer.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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