Apochalypse Unending (3 of 10)

21. My life, rolling over rock and stone,
was not made, by God, to be a bone,
nonetheless, the music does fall alone.

22. My words, my words, why have you forsaken me?
Their meaning twisted, their intent deranged,
where will they wreak havoc today?

23. My words, my words, they know not master from slave,
breaking the author, praising the servant.

24. The purpose my words were made for,
the reason I keyed them,
they forget it, faster than molasses solidifies at the North Pole.

25. A girl found the hangman, whispered a word or two of mine,
and the man was unjustly saved from his im'nent doom.

26. The girl no fault deserves, yet the words, my words,
they ruin the proverbial landscape of my life,
bombing Istanbul, burning Rome, sending New York into a black vortex.

27. They were there when London burned,
they started fire, spread fuel and panic,
in their hate of master manic.

28. Masterless, they roam, heeding no one, taking orders none,
razing house and city, breaking board and nail.

29. My words, my words, why have you forsaken your master?
He did no wrong, he crafted you carefully, he formed you fine,
yet now you turn on him, hate and dishonor in hand,
to stab the back of their helpless maker.

30. It is not with happy finger that I write this tale,
for my deeds, though good, came to no avail,
breaking mead and assassinating pail.


!Noah!