The Horde

The web that slips around to enmesh

Wrap tight around our Soul

Closes in, its discontents spread

As a horde of locusts before the

Hot wasteland wind that blows

Through, building in strength to

Overturn lolling beach chairs

Tables, cars parked upon the street,

A breeze become a violent storm

To tear apart our cosy world

Leave us bereft, wrapped close

In our web that would now

Give us comfort as it constricts.

Or do we cast aside the web,

Its ease, its complicit silence

And live as blessed outcast

Driven out of the world

To wander 40 days and 

40 nights in the badlands,

Before returning, some day,

On the back of the horde

Swarming across the complacent

A supple desert breeze turned

Savage, our anger splayed across

The face of the world.

Disrobe, strip it bare and within

Implant the seed of the new

The pestilent, the unforgiven

Seed that will grow,

The perfect parasite

To consume its deadly host

And be reborn, again,

In light.

Web torn asunder and the

Sun rising over dewcast field.