Why, in this world of matter made of light,
must darksome deeds exert their dirtful spell?
Why should corruption cleanness overwrite?
This turning globe: a ghostly carousel.
What operator works this joy-wheel’s load?
Whose fingers play that organ’s endless tune?
Those empty horses poised in gallop mode
look eerie in the half-light of the moon.
Just then I saw the owner darting through
those plastic equine dummies which he’d made.
This is, I thought, someone to stand up to.
I lunged and pulled his hood back, unafraid.
But when I looked him squarely in the eye
He said “Because you’ve seen me you must die”.
Undeterred, I challenged his conjecture.
He roared: “You go where angels fear to tread!”
On his face a scaly desperate texture.
“By nature you’re a liar”, I then said.
At this, he wrapped his fingers round my throat
and squeezed with all his strength (for that was great).
Just then I found the promised antidote:
My lifeforce he can never suffocate.
For visions filled my mind of future’s path
with cataclysmic ruptures on the earth.
The time had come to make known nature’s wrath —
the words I spoke to him drenched in rebirth:
“No more will there be leeway for your spite
within this world of matter made of Light”.
© Alan Morrison, 2016