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Do they know the game they play
With such capricious policies, Ungrounded in the truths we find Essential to democracies? To kill by lockdown those unfilled By "viral load," they murder those Who would have been essential in Our fighting economic lows Of country, state, and family So as to bring prosperity-- A true prosperity of all, Not of the social bourgeoisie. But here we go into decay To live and die under the state Of death, as slaves we breathe our last, Resolved to learn that Love is Hate And War is Peace, that Slaves are Free-- Free from all outside tyranny-- And those inside asymptomatic-- Carriers who no longer see The Image clear--Imago Dei-- With faces masked and censored voice That speaks with muffled, muted breath Against crescendoed Marxist noise: "We will not pledge allegiance to another, For none could be as worthy as Big Brother."
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Fear not the dark one who can kill your feeble flesh alone;
Fear God!--the One who holds the key to your eternal Home. And if that home be Heaven, fear not! All will be well. But if you claim what you deserve, your chains will be in Hell. While there is time yet to repent, repent and then believe; Believe in Christ who slew the dark one so He could receive Your soul alas into the place of Heaven's purest light And lay your fear of death to death as daybreak scatters night. Now driven by Edenic damage down,
And dreading this dystopian mirage, I seek the Savior’s satisfying salve To heal the sting of Satan’s sabotage. No matter when the wiles of world will end, I find a balm within his wounded side, The only place where suffering can unlock And cause the gates of Eden to swing wide Again, precluding all eternal misery, Securing second advent victory From sin and sickness--all that drives me down-- Transfiguring affliction to a crown Of glory. None but His soothing balm Can turn the stormy world to calm. "It is remarkable, that persons who speculate the most boldly often conform with the most perfect quietude to the external regulations of society. The thought suffices them, without investing itself in the flesh and blood of action."
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlett Letter. New York, NY: Dover Thrift Editions. 1994, p. 113. And can I let this "living" cease,
To grasp what's buried underneath This ground, my grave with death’s decay And dare to lose the light of day? Six feet above, my bones have sought To cause this flesh of mine to rot Away. If only I could die And so defeat this mortal lie. If only I could mortify Myself. Then let this mortal die. Then let this mortal down to lie. |
writer
Michael Price - I am a husband, father, poet, and science teacher at a classical Christian school in Memphis, TN. I have three volumes of poetry. 
New book available now!
Dissent with Modification: Poems Against COVIDism, Darwinism, and Wokeism 
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